


The Bookkeeper

by Vishampi



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, My first fic, Unfinished, time/space/universe travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 16:10:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 47,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17227184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vishampi/pseuds/Vishampi
Summary: Several years old now, my first (and so far last) fanfiction work I have ever done. English isn't my first language, but I strive to keep on par with native speakers; writing something seemed like a good idea to refresh some of the language. The fic itself is really quite a mess, and remains forever unfinished as I didn't actually prepare it but instead wrote as the chapters came. Naturally, that couldn't last too long.I'm putting it back after deleting it long time ago, because why the hell not.The story is terrible, but I'm still kind of proud of it. The last chapter is E rated smut; until then, it's Teen safe.--The Bookkeeper is a story of a woman from another world, waking up in an unfamiliar place, faced with challenges she never thought she would have to think about. Set within the Inquisition timeline, it runs alongside the main series' characters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Smuttine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smuttine/gifts).



She was late. Oh so very, very late. Pushing her already brisk tempo, her fit legs were burning from the sudden strain. She picked her way across a small patch of desert left among the neighbourhood's dusty yellow buildings, and cut her way through the filth left behind and scattered in the hot sand. Trash everywhere. Kicking aside a broken can, long bleached by the usurping sun, she pondered whether this would appear normal to her, ever. Probably not.

Being late wasn't one of her favourite things either. It was one of her least favourite things, as a matter of fact. It always bore trouble, and being late picking up your own child from a nursery was simply shameful. Especially since she wasn't really busy before she realized how the hour had progressed; she got simply lost in thought, book in her lap, daydreaming about some distant realities at best. By the time she heard the uncertain Arabic of a nonnative calling for a noon prayer, it was already too late.

She managed to throw a plain black abaya over her usual comfortable cotton home wear, and wrap a featherweight sheila over her hair; in less than two minutes she was marching through the seething hot streets to pick up her son from his nursery class.

It was a humid, sticky day. The sea breeze was heavy with tiny drops, stubbornly sticking to anything exposed and soaking dampness into any fabric. Combined with the late summer heat from the merciless desert sun, the weather could only be described as horrible. Completely inappropriate for any kind of casual stroll, much less with a tired toddler. Instead of the usual expected car lift by his dad, he had to walk.

Her littlest girl was waiting at home, kept busy by their housekeeper. Amal always put up a crying fight when she saw either of her parents leaving without her. And it broke her mother's heart a little every time she had to leave, even only for a little while.

When she and very cranky Muharib arrived at home, it took only a little time to realize how late she really was. Her eldest daughter was already changing from the pink school uniform, asking for some lunch and TV. Usually, Nur was the last one to come home, besides her dad on certain days. But not today.

Not the best of days, I suppose, she thought gloomily.

Quickly peeling off the traditional attire, she helped her younger ones to settle in the spacious living room. Leaving a random kid's channel chirping on the television screen, she dove straight in the adjacent kitchen to summon up some lunch.

She heard the keys rattling in the entrance door at the same moment as the dark, wheezing sound outside the open kitchen window, and her husband stepped in the marbled hallway.

She approached him and pushed a quick welcome kiss on his cheek.

“You should shave. People will think I am harboring a hermit here,” she brushed her fingers through his growing beard. He laughed and touched her cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

“I thought you don’t care what others think?” His dark eyes glittered with amusement.

“I don’t,” she replied, “just trim it. It’s sexier.” Swaying her hips gently, she returned to the kitchen.

She cut two chicken breasts, peeled potatoes, took out some frozen vegetables. Nobody really ate the greens, besides herself and the housekeeper, who happened to be allergic on the country's poultry meat. Or maybe, just maybe, the helper didn't like the taste of chicken, but was too afraid to mention it. Domestic workers were not always treated with respect or kindness, so she couldn’t blame her employee. Although she did feel slightly affronted for not being trusted after so many years of friendship.

The second time she heard the unusual sound, she was standing near the oven, casually stirring vegetables in a small black pot. Airplanes. That was the omnipresent hum, getting closer. It took her a little to realize that airplanes flying this low wasn't normal, and more than one of them flying this low in Middle East never brought a warm or fuzzy feeling. It was a scary sound, with the potential of bringing very bad news.  

Headache.

No, scratch that. Migraine. An enveloping pain in her head, blood pounding within the skull, unbearably sharp white light lurking behind her firmly shut eyelids.  
She groaned. Bad idea. More pain, more light, more pounding. Clanking sounds, too. Her mouth was full of a metallic taste. Blood. Her own, perhaps? Louder clanking. Heavy, booted steps, closing in on her.

Panicked, she tried to raise herself from the ground. Ground? She felt it with her fingers, grinding damp soil underneath her palms. She didn't recall being outdoors. Oh, no. No recalling. Pain. Like shrapnel, stabbing through the haze, leaving her unable to focus on anything else.

All right. Trying to remember hurts.

Booted feet stopped close to her side. Sending a desperate plea to her unmoving limbs, she groaned once more. Her body sent a wave of sharp and dull feelings all at the same time.

Broken bones? she thought. Difficulty breathing. Crushing feeling in wrists. Why can't I-

"Don't move!"

Oh, why does that voice have to be so loud?

Another groan escaped her, silently bidding the person not to shout again. Her legs didn't listen to her. She only had control over her hands.

Not much of use, she despaired.

Forcing one eye open, she took in her surroundings. Dark, wet soil. Blood and water everywhere. Snow. Wait, snow? Wasn't she on a-

No recalling. Forget about recalling. It hurts too much.

All right, she decided. Start over. Cold. Wet. Red. Smell of rust and iron all around. All in all, not good.

Panic swelled up in her. She gave in to the feeling, breath coming in shallow gasps. Opening both eyes, she spotted dark leather boots, very close to her face. She pulled back, scared, only to bump into another pair firmly planted behind her back. Like a trapped doe, she turned her head only to find herself completely surrounded by hostile-looking men, all pointing heavy, blood stained swords at her. Thick armoured frames. Heavy leather boots. Why was she focused on the boots?

"I said, don't move!" shouted the scruffiest of the men. He nudged her chin with the tip of his sword, the cold steel stinging on her skin.

She snapped and screamed, so loudly it deafened her, or so she thought. She felt the crushing force of panic and fear and confusion leaving her all at once, like a spring breeze fluttering away.

The men were no longer looming over her.

At a loss, she tried to sit up, supporting her torso with what was probably a broken wrist. Where did they go…?

The men lay in complete disarray, forming a circle around her broken - and nearly bare - body. And on a second glance, they actually looked terrified...of her.

A strong voice, belonging to a clearly displeased woman, cut in.

"Step away! What are we dealing with this time?" The loud voice made the distant ringing in her ears rather more immediate.

Just when she could catch a glimpse of short raven hair and a thin braid, the pain returned. Seething like a branding iron and stabbing across her temples. She fell back, clutching her head in her broken hands, ground pressing into her sore cheek.

And then the welcoming darkness finally came: inviting, stretching, and swallowing. Her body went limp as the raven-haired woman approached, cursing at the sight of the sad, ragtag pile suddenly collapsing in front of her.


	2. Chapter 2

She woke up to completely immobile legs, and sharp but bearable soreness with every breath. Dull, dampened pain pounded in her left wrist and elbow. A fleeting memory nudged her, presenting a blurry image of a horse falling down on her many years ago. The memory disappeared as quickly as it came, bringing a pang of discomfort.

She tested moving her right hand back and forth. Intact. Her left arm, however, seemed to have taken some serious damage. By what?

A fall? An accident? External violence? Whatever the cause, it had not been merciful.

A freezing draft of air licked her naked shoulders; shivering, she opened her eyes and noticed a slender woman kneeling next to her.

Minaeve’s eyes opened wide in reaction to her patient’s movement. The woman had been unconscious for three days, lost in nightmares, screaming incomprehensible words, kicking violently and injuring herself even more. Minaeve had to ask Solas for assistance; she and the mage had wrapped the injured woman in a filthy linen blanket to restrain her.

They’d trickled some elfroot extract between her bloodied lips, with little broth to keep her from starving. Solas didn’t feel using his skills on a minor injury was necessary – broken bones happened all the time and didn’t require any special magic to heal. His main concern was their other patient, a man whose hand radiated wild green magic.

Minaeve glanced up and approached the burly man kneeling alone between the dark cells.

“You are in pain. Let me help you.” She stretched out her hand, offering a vial of elfroot extract.

“No. Go away.” He hissed the words, eerie light from his hand illuminating the entire cell block. The mark glared, crackling, and he held it close to his chest, long drawn breaths echoing within the stone walls. Drops of sweat carried pieces of dirt through his beard, and flickers of fire glimmered in little wet beads under his chin. He flinched and curled up, and when the magic calmed down, he relaxed and glared her way.

Minaeve stood, taken aback for a moment.

He scowled, straightening his shoulders and filling the small room with his presence. “Just leave me alone.”

She didn't impose. Clutching a small, black hemp pouch in her hands, a pendant of a sort, she turned her attention back to the woman laying in front of her. The heavy pendant was without a doubt a personal keepsake.

Cassandra had opened it earlier, offered a glimpse to the frowning blond Templar as well, sealed it back and returned it to Minaeve to do with it as she pleased.

The trinket has been deemed safe, so they didn't care. They were interested if there was a blood vial, or an enchanted item, anything that could threaten the safety of Haven. But there was nothing like that. Not wanting to pry, Minaeve simply held onto the necklace until the prisoner awoke.

Who is she? The elven apprentice wondered. Her patient was shorter than most humans or elves, but still a head taller than Master Tethras; her complexion was light, her hair tangled in long strands around ears too short for an elf.

The woman could be a mage. A rebel, or an apostate like Solas, or maybe even a Circle member. They didn’t know, but Seeker Pentaghast’s men had witnessed her casting some kind of spell in the rubble.

"Here." She presented the little black pouch to her patient. "I believe this belongs to you." Carefully stretching her hand, the woman took it with a curt nod, a low growl escaping her lips. Minaeve wasn't entirely sure if that was thanks or a reaction to one of the unhealed hurts.

Minaeve tucked her charge deeper into the thin, stinking linen, got up, and left the cell. The guard locked the door safely behind her. Minaeve had spent most of her time close to the woman, as long as she was asleep. But her patient was up now, and Minaeve’s job was done.

 

The imprisoned woman watched the lanky figure of her nurse go away. Pain was pulsing through her in throbbing intervals, but it didn’t force her to tears anymore. She wasn’t sure if it was due to the care she was receiving, or she was simply going to freeze to death soon.

She hung the black pendant around her neck. Somehow, the pouch felt familiar, reassuring. She needed familiar, since everything else seemed irrevocably out of place. The cold stone beneath her, the rough, biting linen covering her, the bitter taste on her tongue from whatever brew passed in between her dry lips.

She sat behind bars, thick rusting metal forming intimidating pillars. The same leather boots she remembered were now standing just a step away from the bars, and the man wearing them locked the door behind the nursemaid. She heard the rattle of a heavy iron key in his hand as he moved toward the bereft figure in front of her cell.

Cursing, she scrambled up to sit, clutching the blanket close to her bare body. The man in front was kneeling, but his eyes were bright with anger. He looked around, holding her gaze with unnaturally light hazel eyes for a short moment.

He was about as filthy as she felt. He was covered in blood and mud; damp clothes stuck to his muscular body, pieces of dirt dusted his unshaven beard, and black hair curled in messy tangles around his ears. But at least he was wearing something, she thought ruefully. Not just his own skin.

She watched the interrogation unfold in front of her, attention slipping away. If her left hand wasn’t in such a state, she would swear on her grandmother’s grave she was having another nightmare. But everything smelled and sounded real, felt real. The cold breeze, the mold, the chains and metal scraping on the unforgiving floor. Cassandra, clad in chain and leather armour, the hooded woman behind her called Leliana, the impossible bursts of…light coming from the other prisoner’s palm.

Wake up, she whispered to herself. She pinched her thigh, hard, to no avail.

Cassandra dragged the chained prisoner onto his feet and out of the cellar; their footsteps quickly faded away. She followed their departure with increasingly heavy eyelids. Silence filled the chamber, and she felt herself slipping into a fitful sleep.

“I cannot explain something I’ve never encountered, Seeker,” said an irate voice.

“You are not being very useful, apostate.”

She recognized the voice belonging to the raven haired beauty, Cassandra. Opening her heavy eyes, she noticed two figures arguing in shadows only few meters away from the room where she was being held, both just shy of stepping into the torch’s light.

Several hours must have passed. Her neck felt incredibly stiff and sore from sleeping upright, but to her relief, she didn’t remember having any twisted or bad dreams for the first time in several days.

“I don’t know why I even agreed to this. You cannot explain the mark, and you cannot explain the…person in that cell!”

Uttering a disgusted snort, Cassandra stormed out of the cellar hallway, a short sword clanking at her side.

The other figure shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. He clutched a long wooden staff in his hand, his hooded head and shabby attire glistening from the snow. He turned towards her cell and slowly approached the guard, who let him enter.

She watched the man’s light-footed, predatory gait. He stepped into her cell and lowered himself in front of her, lifting his blue eyes to her. She stared, transfixed, until he chuckled.

“Breathe,” he said.

She inhaled. Breathe. Several lightheaded moments later, she could feel her body relaxing. Scared but strangely spellbound, she focused on her lungs. She still wasn’t used to how tall the people were.

“Good.” He stretched his long fingers and lifted her hurting hand to examine it closely.

Frowning, he turned her palm upwards, shook his head and returned her hand to her lap.

He turned her head left and right, scrutinizing the wounds under her collar bone, a distant look settling on his face. She couldn’t help but search his features while he went over her injuries – the visible ones, out of the blanket.

He had light skin, no visible facial hair. She couldn’t see under his hood but she guessed he had no hair on his scalp either. Only dark, almost coppery eyebrows furrowed in a displeased scowl gave away a possible colour of his hair, had he any. Beautiful creature, she thought. And tall.

She fought another wave of panic. Grabbing the black hemp amulet in her right hand, she scrambled against the wall, trying to put some distance between him and her disrobed body.

“I am not here to hurt you,” he said., “Quite the contrary.”

He abruptly stood, sizing her up.

She didn’t look at him. Everything had been so scary and confusing; nothing made sense at all. Worst of all, she couldn’t recall why. Whenever she attempted to recollect anything, the bright, sharp light came and filled her head, and nothing but the white pain could stay.

She looked up when she felt a surprisingly gentle touch on her head. Her examiner was frowning, but his features seemed softer when he tucked a strand of tangled hair behind her ear and asked,

“What is your name?”

She frowned, aware of the pain gathering in her temples, another lost memory fluttering close but out of reach.

“I…” she said,  “…can’t… I don’t – I don’t know. Sorry.”  Not sure why she was apologizing, she pressed her hands to her forehead, where small beads of cold sweat started to form.

 

Solas stood without a word, a small pang of sympathy reflecting in his features, eyes set on the woman sitting in front of him. She shivered in the cold creeping from the chantry’s stone walls, and was visibly disheartened by her failing memory: if what she was saying was true, of course. She wore little underneath the thin linen blanket and a knit pendant hung around her neck, the pouch nesting deep under her collar bone.

Seeker Pentaghast had told him it was but a harmless trinket, and the woman might be a mage.

Whatever the truth was, she looked rather pitiful at the moment. It appeared that she has been mostly forgotten, wasn’t it for Minaeve, who took an odd interest in her. The elven woman wasn’t really a healer, nor a proper mage, and she couldn’t do much about her charge’s injuries. Besides Minaeve, nobody really noticed the woman’s existence until the more important jailbird left for the Breach.

He felt a familiar bite of guilt. Turning on his heel, he marched out of her chamber and headed upstairs. He needed to have a word with Minaeve.


	3. Chapter 3

“Run!”

A large, dark claw reached ahead to tear her face off, ripping through the flesh. Chanting “Daesh, daesh!” over and over, a shadowy creature crawled closer and closer, rocks grinding under its exposed ribcage, enveloping blackness swirling violently around its shape. Loud screeching forced her hands up, and she cowered, pressing palms into her ears, tears streaming down her torn cheeks in warm, salty rivers.

She bolted up, ignoring the dull echo of broken ribs protesting the sudden move, and tucked the mess of her hair into a piece of cloth. Taking several deep breaths, she let her heartbeat settle down and eased the air back in her lungs. Nightmares plagued her sleep regularly, and she’d always wake up sweating and screaming. She didn’t know what she’d been saying in her dreams, but she had to laugh every time she noticed how she spooked the guard on watch, who shuffled his feet and muttered confused prayers.

Someone had dropped a woolen cover and clean tunic with pants in her cell while she slept; the attire was rough, but it was clean, and it was an outfit. It looked as if it was stripped off a giant, but she didn’t care. Covering her skin was heavenly, even if it made her itch all the time, dust and dirt her closest companions. She’d trip over the trousers, sleeves flailing behind her like broken wings.

Every day, the guards brought bland broth or porridge, and she ate without hesitation, forcing her rumbling stomach to quiet down.

Unsure how much time had passed since the hooded man left or if he ever returned [back], she stood up and paced in short, hurried steps across the little cell. She stopped trying after several futile attempts to pry any answers from her silent, cautious guards. Boredom began to sink in and she seldom heard any signs of life, and the stockade was uninhabited except for her and her guards. There was no trace of the other prisoner who had been dragged out earlier. Her steps resonated on the damp floor, the wrap she fastened around her feet loosening and letting the bare skin touch chilly stones.

She grabbed her pendant, leaving a trace of dust on the black fabric, and wondered why it felt so reassuring whenever she held it close.

Safe, familiar, and stable amidst the chaos. At first, she thought the pouch was filled with herbs. But smelling it and crunching it between her fingers, she realized it didn’t contain anything fragile or fragrant; on the contrary, the pendant felt heavy and appeared to be filled with multiple trinkets. She reached down to open it on many occasions, curious about her secret. But every time she tried, a force of her own mind stopped her, and she could never finish untying the strings that secured it. Instead, she kept touching and molding it in her hands, feeling the softness of the hemp fabric, wondering what was lurking inside. 

She dropped the knit necklace back under her shirt and stopped pacing. Her cell was narrow and long enough to accommodate at least two people, but didn't allow for too much movement. She slumped against the rusty iron bars, cool metal biting into her skin.

Wrinkling her nose over an unpleasant smell pooling around her, she caught a glimpse of shadows near the doorway leading down the cellar. Muffled sounds of arguments carried through, getting slowly closer.

“She is our only lead now, since ever you have so benevolently pardoned the…Herald!” An unknown voice thundered throughout the chamber, spitting out the last word out as if it was poison. 

“I highly doubt she is the mastermind behind temple explosion, Chancellor,” Cassandra countered. She walked briskly in the space between the cell rooms, hand gripping her sword’s hilt, knuckles yellow.

“But you cannot really know, can you?” the Chancellor asked and stopped near a cell. He turned his attention to the only occupied chamber and continued, folding his arms.

“You say she isn’t guilty, and your apostate says she knows nothing at all. I find that hard to believe!”

The distressed Chancellor came into view, and she saw that he was wearing…a dress. A long, red and white robe with golden embroidery panning from the bottom; his face was partially hidden under a hood with similar pattern. His hostile eyes glared at her, fingers poking and pointing at her whenever he spoke.

“Let me take her to Val Royeaux, and there she can be judged accordingly!” he implored.

Cassandra scoffed loudly and shook her head. “No.”

“No?!”

He turned to face the warrior, straightening his back and scowling. 

“First you refuse to give the Herald to the Chantry, and now you’re holding on to this bag of fleas?”

“Hey.” She approached the cold bars again and frowned back at him. “The bag of fleas is right here.”

Cassandra glanced at her, eyebrows shooting up and a barely visible smirk appearing on her lips. Her features hardened when she looked back at the Chancellor.

“I am not giving you – or the Chantry – anyone who is under my protection.” Closing in on the cell, she prodded the guard to open the lock. “Take your leave, Chancellor. You have overstayed your welcome.”

Shaking his head, the Chancellor  turned on his heels and briskly left the jail, cheeks aflame in anger.

Cassandra opened the door and looked into her prisoner’s questioning eyes.

“No running.”

Not in any shape to run, she nodded and stepped out of her cell.

“Wait here.” Pointing at the place where the last prisoner had been kneeling, Cassandra left the jail.

Standing out of her enclosure, she realized how ridiculously short she felt among the people here. Even if she tried running, she’d probably just trip over her borrowed clothes, or someone’s big foot.

She giggled,the sound echoing back in a scared squeak. The guard shifted nervously, resting his right hand on his sword’s pommel, not letting the prisoner from his sight.

A few minutes passed in silence before she heard the steps returning, a pair of heavy boots following Cassandra’s. She fixed her eyes on the doorway and swallowed, wrinkling her tunic  between her fingers. Somehow, hearing metal  accompanying anyone’s steps felt  threatening.

Cassandra entered the cell block first, with a heavily armoured man in tow. Slight stubble forming on his face, his inquisitive brown eyes surveyed the room. A fur of an unknown creature was resting on his shoulders over heavy armour. If he didn’t frown, she’d consider him truly handsome.

He examined her intently, then tilted his head and lifted an eyebrow on Cassandra.

Cassandra answered the unspoken question.  “She has been…forgotten. We were trying to close the Breach and...more important things had to be done first.” Cassandra’s voice was less certain than before, her eyes never meeting the woman standing in front of them.

She turned to the prisoner standing in the middle of the room, wrapped in a filthy blanket. “I apologize.”

The woman’s cheekbones were ruby red, her fists tightly clenched. “No need,” the captive replied, acknowledging Cassandra’s apology. She glanced at the intimidating blond man who strode few paces closer, towering over her.

"Cullen?" Cassandra asked. Silence settled heavily within the chamber, nobody moving, everyone frozen in time. Cullen stared intently on her, searching her features for something.

"What did the apostate say, again?" he asked. "Because I might agree with him, for once."

"Oh?" Cassandra looked back at the strange woman with sudden curiosity, folding her arms across the rising sun emblazoned on her chest armour.

"I saw her use magic. And there's a handful of men who will swear by it."

Glancing from Cullen to Cassandra, their prisoner laughed, shaky and shrill.

"…Magic? You're joking, right?" 

She took a step back, and both Cassandra and Cullen put their hands on the pommels of their swords. 

"I am not sure what is going on." Taking another step back, she continued, eyes jumping from one to another. "But I assure you, there's no magic in me. Or around me." She giggled, a jagged, desperate sound resonating within the jail.

Her head started to throb, and her vision became hazy; a thick, milky fog settled over her sight. 

Oh, no. Not now. 

But the light started to pour in, filling her view with brilliant whiteness, deafening screech taking over her hearing. She put her hands up, covering and pushing on her ears and eyes. Falling to her knees, she shook uncontrollably at their feet.

Cullen hesitated for a second, then pulled her slowly back on her feet.

“Are you alright?” he asked, a question with an obvious answer right in front of him. 

He held her arm in a firm grip and scrutinized her.

“Cassandra,” he turned his head, “I don’t think someone who can’t even walk poses any immediate danger.” Cullen let her arm go and stepped away, a small frown set in his face. “I’ll be at the smithy, if you need me.” 

Cassandra glanced over to the shivering woman standing in front of her, and beckoned her to leave the jail. 

The prisoner followed silently few steps behind her, head down, steps short, eyes glued to her trousers. Once out of the building, Cassandra stopped and looked at her. 

“You are free to leave. Just don’t go around looking for trouble.”

She frowned, glancing at the warrior setting her free. Her clothes weren’t warm enough to go wandering around, and her feet were wrapped in cotton instead of shoes. She looked at the falling snowflakes for a moment, then turned and touched Cassandra’s arm. When Cassandra stiffened, she quickly let go.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “ I...I don’t know where to go.” She took a ragged breath. “Maybe I could stay here, for a while? Until I remember where I go?”

She had no idea what to do or where to go, and being spat out into the open world, so unfamiliar to her, seemed more threatening than being imprisoned for an unknown reason – she was, after all, relatively safe down there, as far as they didn’t know what to do with her.

“I suppose,” Cassandra replied warily. “If you can make yourself useful, Haven has a place for you.”


	4. Chapter 4

She strolled away from the unwelcoming stone building, further into the settlement. A cold breeze swirled and bit into her cheeks, and feathery snowflakes landed on her nose. She smiled at the taste of freedom.

She passed an area littered with boxes, unused chainmail, and various dried plants. Leliana stood close by, sheltered from the unpleasant weather by fabric erected to form a large, open tent, and chatted with two men hidden under green hoods. A chubby, heart-faced woman argued loudly with a scrawny looking merchant, and she could hear Cullen’s voice thundering from afar, ordering a small skirmish practice with less experienced recruits. 

Kicking a small rock under her sore feet, she glanced around, lost in thoughts: she needed a goal. A warm place to stay, a roof over her head, food in her stomach, and most of all, proper shoes. She dodged a passing soldier and started to apologize, but stopped mid sentence, staring at his ears. 

“Sorry,” she mumbled, and looked away before the man could realize she was gawking like a little child. He shrugged and continued on his way, but she couldn’t help but turn and stare. Pointy ears. She wasn’t seeing things. She stood still, biting her lip and kicking the fresh layer of glistening snow, thoughts racing in her head. Did an elf just pass by?

She turned and noticed a burly, short, and rather hairy man standing near two snow-dusted tents. He was watching her intently, a faint smile playing on his lips and a day old stubble reflecting the warm, rich colours of dusk settling over the enclave. As if he was used to seeing bereft-looking people in oversized clothes, he nodded and waved her over.

“Heard you fell out of the sky. Varric Tethras, at your service.” He winked and grinned, handing her a length of string from his pocket.

“Falling on my head would certainly explain a lot of things,” she said with amusement, tying her pants closer to her waist. For once, she was the one looking down. 

He glimpsed her raw feet and shook his head. Taking her elbow, he led her through the settlement to a large wooden building with two statues of howling dogs guarding its entrance.

As they passed by, people watched them curiously, but Varric either didn't notice, or he didn't care.

“You are in luck, because I can sense a good story from miles away. And something tells me that yours is one of them. Welcome to the Singing Maiden.” 

He opened the wide wooden door and let her enter the modest tavern.  A few patrons sat over blackened mugs, dishes clinking, barely audible chatter temporarily quieting down at the sight of her. Varric pointed at an unoccupied table and winked at the chubby tavern maid.

“Let's start with your name.”

She sat down and frowned, shuffling her feet under the desk. A moment of uncomfortable silence passed, and she caught his intrigued gaze.

“You’ve got me,” she said defensively. “I don’t remember it.” Her ears and nose started to tingle in the warmth; a cosy fire crackled in a large hearth behind them and lit the walls with orange and red flickers.

“Wait...Are you saying you don't know your own name? This story has only just begun and it's already golden!” He leaned his palms on the table and laughed. “So. Let's find a name for you, then. Every hero needs one.”

She sat back and folded her arms, waiting.

Varric leaned back in his chair. “Trust me, I am a storyteller. I can come up with a name for you. Any...favourite colour, maybe?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Green. And orange. Yellow. Eh, I like all the colours, really.” 

He hummed and measured her, drumming his fingers on the smooth wooden table. “That won't do. Maybe something else you like? Don't you remember anything at all?”

Catching her nail on a loose splinter in the table, she took a quick look around. Strangely enough, she did recall impressions and feelings; some things seemed normal and other things did not. She remembered details of no consequence, like her preferred colour or least favorite smell But anything concrete, any memory she could base her life on? They all eluded her, hiding deep within her own being, guarded by a sickening physical reaction whenever she tried to pry the imaginary door open. She touched her black pendant and looked back at the jovial dwarf sitting on the other side of the small, worn table.

“You mentioned you are a storyteller? Written stories somehow seem...familiar and comforting,” she replied. “I guess it is safe to assume I used to hoard books?”

Varric chuckled. “I can work with that.” 

He stood up and approached the bar, talking to a redheaded girl tending it. Sweeping gestures and teasing laughter carried across the tavern, and she saw the maid blush.

Returning with two mugs filled to the brim with a foaming brew, he carefully slid one tankard toward her.

“Bookkeeper,” he said, grinning confidently.

She raised her eyebrows at him.  “Bookkeeper? Maybe we should go back to the colours.” 

“You’ll grow into it,” he promised. Lifting his mug in a silent toast, he cautiously sipped the bitter liquid. Satisfied with the taste, he gulped down the ale in one swing and sighed, patting his stomach. She puckered her nose at the drink and licked a bit of the bitter foam off. Varric’s eyes crinkled in a smile, and he pushed a few heavy silver coins across the scratched table.

“Buy yourself proper shoes. And Andraste’s ass, go eat something. You look like a starving puppy.” He pushed his chair and stood up, suddenly serious.

“Ask around. People always need things done. Run errands and the coin will come, I promise.” He glanced at the tavern maid, who blushed once again. “Flissa said you can stay here if you help with cleaning when she closes for the night. Just...talk to Sera about the sleeping arrangements.” He chuckled and turned to leave, nodding to the few patrons around in a silent greeting.

“Later, Bookkeeper.” [Originally, he called her Pup. As the starving mabari. Hmm.]

“Sera?” she asked, but Varric was already out the door.

“That’d be me.”

She jumped and hit her shin under the table, hissing in sudden pain. A blond, short haired girl leaned against the tavern wall, grinning wickedly with her head tilted to one side.

“You’re filthy, alright. And look at those breeches!” Sera spat on the floor and laughed, wrinkling her nose. “If you’re going to share any hay with me, you better not stink like a hart.” Sera stood up and looked around. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

She got up and followed the energetic girl out of the tavern, almost grateful for a course.

“So, what’s your story?” Sera asked, dragging her up some stairs near the tavern. They stopped by a wooden hut guarded by two golden statues. Without waiting for an answer, Sera hollered inside. “Adan! Remember how you tried to make me take a bath? I changed my mind. I need the herbs, right?”

Peeking in, Bookkeeper spotted a dark haired man with a goatee. He cursed something she couldn’t really make out, and dug through a small dark chest on a table occupying the cramped, fragrant space. He threw a small pouch smelling of lavender at Sera’s head.

Sera turned, saluting the apothecary with a mocking bow. Small, fuzzy snowflakes started to fall as the sun disappeared behind the ragged edges of the mountains. Long shadows hugged the small village in a dark embrace.

Bookkeeper frowned wishing people would stop dragging her by the elbow like an unruly child. 

“Hey! No time for daydreaming, booklady.” Sera impatiently tapped one foot on the frozen ground near the tavern.

“Wait here.” The elven girl pointed inside the Singing Maiden. “I’ll be back.” And she hurried the opposite way, toward the stone mass of the large central building.

Unwilling to close herself inside just yet, Bookkeeper stayed out of the tavern, listening to the quieting murmur of the settlement. Clinking dishes echoed from inside the building, and random laughter carried to her on the evening breeze, soft giggle of a woman being teased somewhere nearby. The storm intensified and soon snow enveloped the entire area in a soft, sound dampening blanket. She closed her eyes and tilted her head upwards, facing the dark sky. She was still underdressed, but it was… heavenly. She could hear the rustling whisper of snowflakes falling on the ground, and took a deep breath. A puff of condensed air formed at her lips, and she smiled and moved her fingers through the little cloud, chasing icy droplets away. When she lowered her head, she saw thoughtful eyes looking back. 

Without a hood covering his features, he appeared less intimidating: more like a real person, not some creature stepping out of her delirious dreams. He stood silently in the darkness, illuminated by a single torch at the corner of a little wooden house, looking almost as out of place as she felt herself. She wondered whether he felt cold at all.

She held his gaze briefly, the tavern lights reflecting on her hesitant face, fingers crumbling her shirt, her shyness taking over for a moment. Scolding herself for being ridiculous, she shooed it away, and climbed the handful of stairs leading to Adan’s hut.

She stopped in front of the healer.  “I wanted to thank you.” 

He watched her thoughtfully. “What for?” 

“After your visit, a warm blanket and clean clothes magically appeared in my cell,” she replied. 

He visibly relaxed, warm torchlight softening his features. “You are welcome.”

She chuckled, unable to stop herself. He certainly didn’t play the false modesty card. Hearing steps on the stairs, she turned around and saw the blond fringe appear, a displeased scowl on Sera’s face once she realized who Bookkeeper was talking to.

“Solas,” she greeted the apostate icily

“Sera,” Solas replied, equally cold. 

Bookkeeper looked from one to another and furrowed her brows, digging her bare toes in the hard ground underneath.  She was clearly missing something here.. Sera turned to her, theatrically ignoring Solas.

“Come, stinky. You’re not bunking near me until you smell all fancy and fine.”

Bookkeeper coughed and felt her cheeks warm up, a treacherous blush creeping from her neck up to her ears. She'd forgotten how smelly she had to be, since the prison underneath the Chantry lacked in the bathing department.

Sera pulled on Bookkeeper’s oversized sleeve like a leash and forced her to follow, the apostate’s quiet laughter accompanying their crunching steps.


	5. Chapter 5

She plucked some elfroot out of the frozen ground and placed it on a growing pile in a small entwined basket. The hardy herb was used for almost anything in the settlement, and Adan asked her to resupply the apothecary every day in exchange for a few silvers, and sometimes a small pouch of lavender for her bath. She'd scale the mountains around Haven early in the morning, enjoying the dawn and seclusion it offered, and return to the waking village to have a small morning meal with Sera in the tavern.

The village had been quiet for the past few weeks. Anthony Trevelyan traveled to the Hinterlands and Fallow Mire and further, taking most of his companions and forces along and stopping by Haven only on occasion. Sera stayed behind. She’d fed his underpants to a druffalo.

Bookkeeper watched Sera climb up the mountainside, huffing heavily in the morning air. She reached the small clearing where Bookkeeper stood and exhaled few times before catching her breath, icy mist forming around her. 

“Picking daisies for Elfy Elf? Let him get muscles on his ass instead.” Sera dug out a leaf that looked suspiciously like poison ivy and threw it in the basket, giggling. “Here. That's better.”

Bookkeeper fished it out and threw it back in the glittering snow. “It's for Adan, Sera. Solas is not here, remember?”

Sera scowled. “Well, he is now. And Herald, right? He brought some blighted books back.” She looked away, worrying her lip. “That tit is asking for you.” Sera pointed down the valley at a large caravan with soldiers pouring back into the settlement. 

Bookkeeper sighed. “Of course he is.” She must’ve missed their arrival while looking for Adan’s herbs. She pulled last elfroot out of the snow and carefully positioned it over the others, frowning. The Herald of Andraste - also a former prisoner - earned respect among the little military force at Haven; not so much among the women of the settlement, however. He was an insufferable flirt, grinning at every woman with a pulse and sulking if they didn't smile back. Most of the others just avoided him when they could. But she was the errand girl now, mending socks and helping in the village infirmary. Her duties took her all over Haven, including the Herald's house.

Sera folded her arms, a furious sparkle in her eyes. “Just tell him to piss off!”

Bookkeeper shook her head. “I can hardly do that, and you know it.” 

“He's just another friggin nob. Like all the others, yeah? I wish I could stick it to him.”

“He's more likely to stick something to you.” She chuckled and made an obscene gesture.

Sera laughed and snorted in disgust. “Ew. No! Now I won't be able to get it out of my head! Just go. And don't let the pissbucket touch you.”

“I'll talk him to sleep instead, maybe read him one of my stories?” Bookkeeper suggested, a very heavy manuscript of Botany in Thedas on her mind.

Sera scoffed.“Yeah. You do that. Just keep your knickers on, right?”

Bookkeeper watched the members of the expedition scatter around Haven, hugging loved ones and trailing back to their homes. She pushed her legs to move down the mountain and slid on the icy path, landing at the bottom of the valley. She got up as if nothing happened, dusted her trousers, and hurried through the massive entrance gate to give Adan his elfroot.

The apothecary wasn’t in his house. She dropped the basket on one of the tables, and ran back to the gate; the door to the Herald’s house had been left ajar. Trevelyan was asleep. One leg hanging from his bed, pants half stripped, bare chest uncovered, blanket crumpled under him. She stepped silently around and finished what he had started, folding his pants on a small night table. She managed to cover him in the quilt without waking him. He’d be unbearably cranky if he caught a cold. 

She spied the books Sera mentioned, but didn’t touch them, and left the Herald to rest. She weaved her way through the small army Trevelyan gathered on his travels, shuddering uncomfortably at the sight of so many heavily armed men. She touched her pendant to calm down before continuing further. She made her way to the tavern, where Flissa was busy serving drinks and meals to the newly arrived crowd. She gave up trying to get Flissa’s attention and climbed up in the attic instead, digging out a bag of dried fruits from one of the little wooden chests she and Sera shared. She finished her snack quickly, changed into clean clothes, and jumped down into the crowd, determined to run as many errands as she could possibly manage. 

\----------

By evening, Bookkeeper’s head was pounding like a hammer on an anvil. Similar to the pain whenever she tried to recall her past life, a migraine started to bloom behind her eyes. She slid behind the chantry door and slumped against the cold stone wall, grateful for a moment of silence. Her legs were burning from strain, and her fingers were full of needle holes - she’d never guess how many people would prefer to throw darning on her over doing it themselves. Such a little task, but it brought her the most coin. Hissing at the stabbing in her fingertips, she scowled at her hand. Adan would have her hide if she got blood all over the wraps in the infirmary.

“My dear, you look terrible,” said a voice from the darkness. She jumped, her heart skipping a beat, and peered at the tall, graceful figure in shadows.

“It’s been a long day,” she mumbled in defense.

Vivienne tilted her head, tapping a precisely manicured finger against her lips. “You do get around, Bookkeeper. If you would be willing, I have a favour to ask.”

Bookkeeper turned to Vivienne and searched her features, but there was nothing, no emotion she could grasp.

“There are some tomes, scattered around the countryside, and I would like to have them back.” Vivienne furrowed her impeccable skin into a worried frown. “But you see, my dear, lord Trevelyan is too preoccupied  to bother recovering them himself, and I’ve heard certain rumours about your ability to… retrieve manuscripts.”

“Retrieve manuscripts?” Bookkeeper repeated, baffled. She had picked books and scrolls around Haven, yes, but that didn’t require any special ability. She’d have to have a word with Varric.

The First Enchantress regarded her with poorly-concealed contempt. “Yes, darling. You are the only archivist we have at the moment, after all.”

Bookkeeper shook her head. Varric didn’t lie when he said she’ll grow into her name. She simply didn’t expect it to happen without her knowing. Reading had always been one of her favourite past-times. So she strolled around Haven and pulled books from dusty lockers in houses long abandoned, or chests thrown behind the chantry, discarded as trash. She devoured every script she understood out of sheer boredom, and set aside all those in unfamiliar languages, should anyone else wish to read them.

She glanced at Vivienne. “What would you like me to do?”

“Excellent, my dear. Three tomes were lost to me when the Circles rebelled,” Vivienne said, “I believe one of them is in Hinterlands. Despite the early chaos, that region is secure for now. You should face no obstacles while retrieving it. There are two more,” she looked at Bookkeeper studiously, ”but I do not wish to cause you harm. I will inform you when you can safely retrieve the other volumes.”

Bookkeeper bit her lip and frowned. She had been stuck in Haven for weeks. The idea of travel was tempting, and Vivienne’s task offered her the opportunity to travel and return. She worried Cassandra would simply have her leave altogether if she tried to roam.

“I can’t promise anything, but I can try.” 

Vivienne clapped her hands and smiled. “Splendid! I will reward you handsomely once you bring the manuscripts to me.”

Clearly dismissed, Bookkeeper strolled away, her steps resonating within the empty, unwelcoming walls. She knocked on the heavy wooden door where Josephine worked and entered quietly. She glanced over an empty desk, and turned to notice Minaeve elbow deep in...something. The life of a creature researcher at its best. Without looking up, Minaeve handed her a set of very specific instructions for Adan. Running out of the chantry, she tread through a narrow path behind the wooden houses, and dove in Adan’s hut. A heavy smell lingered inside, and the air was filled with white smoke. He was brewing potions over a low blue flame and lifted his eyebrow in silent question when she barged in, a whiff of snow swirling around her feet. She passed him the thin sheet of Minaeve’s instructions. 

He read it, with a dubious frown, then carefully arranged a few vials and some herbs for her in a small box. 

“Don’t trip and spill it. The Amrita Vein extract was my last one.”

She nodded. “I’ll try. Thanks, Adan.” 

She waved him a good night and bolted out, stomach rumbling and legs starting to feel weak. The delicious smell of dinner throughout Haven made her stomach  lock tight. She’d hoped to sit down with one of the new books the Herald had brought, tucked into her quilt and snacking on Flissa’s little cakes.

She dropped off the basket for Minaeve. Grateful for the pitch black sky, she scurried to the attic and curled up in the blankets, letting out a relieved sigh. After a hurried meal, she closed her eyes and let the dreams carry her away, without caring if they were good or bad.

\--------

She woke to a gust of arctic air and shivered, curling further under her thick quilt. The soft, pink light of the morning snuck under the roof, forcing her eyes open. There was a missing plank in the attic wall that she used as a window; she often sat by it, book in her lap, watching people coming and going at the apothecary. And she could see Solas when he didn’t travel with the expeditions. He’d get up early and step outside of his little wooden house, clearly enjoying the peaceful moment. He'd stretch a little, then disappear back in his house. 

She saw him repeat his little ritual now, but when Sera pulled the quilt off her, mumbling incomprehensible words from her dreams, Bookkeeper decided there'd be no more sleep. She stretched her body like a cat, enjoying the pull on her stiff muscles, and got dressed, pushing aside a pile of yellowed scrolls and a handful of books. She turned to take her pendant, then reached over and tucked Sera back under the whole quilt.

She slid down the attic ladder and hugged her tunic closely. The crisp snow under her feet gave away her movement as she climbed the few stairs to the apothecary, not wanting to disturb Solas in his morning routine. 

He finished and glanced at her expectantly.

“The woman who spies on elven apostates,” he said with a laugh. “Are you having troubles with your dreams, Bookkeeper?”

She chuckled. “We might say that, yes. But that’s not why I came,” she replied. Half of the village knew she suffered from nightmares; she often woke up screaming, and the tavern stood right in the middle of Haven. 

“And here I hoped you were going to invite me to your corner of the Fade,” he teased. “I am certain it would be quite an experience.”

She laughed, but stopped abruptly and frowned. “I was actually hoping you’d tell me more of the...Fade. I’ve overheard the Herald refusing your explanations earlier, but I’ve hoped...” she trailed off, words not forming as she wished. 

“Do you not know of the Fade? That is rather an unusual kind of memory loss, Bookkeeper,” he said, eyes narrowed.

“It’s just one of those things that didn’t stick around. I’m...sorry. I shouldn't have disturbed you.” She turned to go, swiping one of the many morning snowflakes off her hair. 

“I did not refuse your request. I merely wondered about your unusual circumstances.” He clasped his hands against the small of his back. She smiled. He looked like a teacher at that moment, and she felt like a child asking obvious questions about life.

“What do you remember about the Fade and spirits?” he asked.

“Only what I have read, I'm afraid.”

He studied her for a long moment. “Perhaps we should find a quiet place to talk.”

They strolled away from the settlement and stopped on a damaged bridge stretching over a frozen river. Solas leaned on the cold stones, eyes glued to the green whirl in the skies. She preferred to avoid the unsettling view and leaned on the same wall, her back to the Breach.

“There is a great deal I can tell you about the Fade,” he started, “but only few are hard facts. I can share what I have learned, if you are truly interested.”

She blew warm air on her fingers and glanced at him leaning beside her. “I have read a little about the Fade from a book I’ve found in the Chantry, but...well, it didn’t really explain much. What is the Veil?”

Solas shook his head and sighed deeply.

“Circle mages call it a barrier between this world and the Fade. But according to my studies in ancient elven lore, that is a vast oversimplification. Without it...imagine if the spirits entered the world freely, if the Fade was not a place one went but a state of nature like the wind.”

“I don’t know if I can imagine that. I can hardly imagine the Fade, or spirits.”

He frowned and turned to face her. “Do you not dream, Bookkeeper? Where do you think you truly are once you close your eyes?”

“I...don’t know? I don’t remember my dreams,” she said, circling her temples with her fingertips. The headache has returned. “And I am grateful for that, to be honest. It’s enough to see how scared Sera looks when she shakes me out of my nightmares.” 

Solas tilted his head. “That is rather curious. There are people in Haven who would swear that you were a mage, albeit a weak one.”

She shuffled her feet on the cobbled path and kicked a loose rock before answering. The rumour of her casting some spell hadn’t quite died out. People always told stories. But now it was a mage who brought it up, and she wasn’t sure how to react.

“Rumours, nothing more. Why would you even mentioned it?” she asked.

He clasped his hands behind his back once more. “Mages have a conscious connection to the Fade. If you were one, you would remember your dreams. You would, in fact, even be able to shape them to an extent.”

“Can you shape your dreams? To an extent?” She folded her arms and faced him fully.

“I can do more than that, I assure you.” And he started to laugh.

She stared. He was handsome when relaxed and laughing. His taut stance was gone for a moment, and she quickly turned to the stone wall, praying he didn't notice how flustered she was. Trying to distract herself, she turned her eyes to the hole in the sky.

“If I understand it right, then the Breach is some kind of gateway between here and the spirit world?”

He joined her by the wall. “Simply put, it is a tear in the Veil between this world and the Fade, allowing spirits to enter the world physically. Small tears occur naturally when magic weakens the Veil or when spirits cluster at an area that has seen many deaths.” 

“This doesn't look small to me,” she said, trying to stay focused.

“The Breach is an exception, and I believe it has been created deliberately. The Herald’s mark allows him to exert some control over the Breach. With any luck, it is also the key to closing it.” 

He straightened and glanced behind her shoulder, nodding at a guard strolling by. “As much as I enjoy your company, Bookkeeper, I must return to my duties. We can continue this discussion later, if you wish.” 

She touched his arm without thinking. Solas stopped and looked at her, a question in his eyes, and she pulled back immediately.

“I…” She furrowed her brows. “Thank you, Solas. For not berating me.” She gave him a sad smile.

He lifted his hand and let it fall back in an unfinished gesture. “On the contrary. It has been a pleasure, Bookkeeper.”


	6. Chapter 6

Bookkeeper scowled and tucked a pouch of dried fruits and nuts in her small linen bag; she already had a spare tunic and pants folded inside with Vivienne’s directions to the book. Bookkeeper finished packing some money in a leather pouch and glanced at the ruffled blond head poking out of the quilts. 

“I don’t see how staying here is any different from taking a short trip to the Hinterlands, Sera.”

Sera scoffed. “Short trip? You’ll be gone for weeks, alright.”

Bookkeeper tilted her head. “Are you worried you’ll be lonely without me kicking you in the night?” she teased.

Sera furrowed her brows, and kicked her sheets off with a devious smirk, exposing her bare skin to the dawn sun. Stretching like a kitten, she threw a lopsided smile to Bookkeeper. 

Bookkeeper lifted an eyebrow at her. “It appears your breeches fell off.”

“Oh, piss off! You are mean.” Sera covered her lower half with the blanket and folded her arms.

“Sera…” Bookkeeper started. She’d wanted to have a word with the elven girl for some time, but wasn’t sure whether it could wait until after her trip.

“Just go. That’s what you want, innit?”

Feeling guilty, Bookkeeper picked up her bag and snatched an empty pouch in her other hand, sliding down into the tavern. “Take care, Sera.” She heard Sera blow a raspberry and shook her head. It was hopeless to argue with her. It'd have to wait.

She stepped out in the chilly weather and pulled her tunic closer, throwing a large hood over her braided hair. She stood alone and closed her eyes, feeling the sharp sting of ice deep in her lungs. The dawn was quiet, even the breeze was gentle and barely swirled around, and the sky was clear.

“No goodbye? I am disappointed.” 

She gasped in surprise, and found herself staring at Solas.  “You walk like a cat, for heaven's sake.” 

He chuckled. “Was that a compliment, Bookkeeper?” 

“Not...entirely.” She hesitated. “And no. I just didn’t want to disturb you this early. I’ll be back to bother you in the mornings again, don’t worry.”

“Despite what you might think, I do enjoy our morning conversations. And I appreciate your curious nature. Stay safe, Bookkeeper.” He briskly walked away.

She watched him leave. “You too, Solas,” she said with more affection than she’d intended.

She still had to pick a mount and saddle it. Holding onto her pendant, she pressed it between her fingers, scolding herself for these silly feelings. 

She picked out a timid chestnut mare. Whispering calming words, she placed her hand under the horse’s chin and led it to a fence where she put on her saddle. A sharp nip on her shoulder stopped her in her tracks. She looked behind and spotted a massive brown hart looking at her curiously. 

“Yes, boy?” she asked the stag and nudged the mare closer. The horse refused and trotted away, nickering; she watched its muscular hind legs disappearing among the other mounts.

“Well, look at that,” she scolded the hart, and started after the chestnut. The buck stepped ahead of her and stopped, eyeing her curiously. She patted him on his velvety nose and took a step aside, and he followed again.

She frowned. “Not funny.” 

The mare was hiding in the furthest corner of the pen. She pushed her shoulder on the stag, trying to make him move, and he pushed back, knocking her over. Sitting in the snow, she looked up and scowled at the rude creature.

Dennet’s laugh carried to her. “I’d suggest you take him instead. He seems to have decided for you anyway.”

“I’ve never ridden a hart,” she replied as she got back up.

“All the same. Just a deeper fall. His saddle is over there.” The stablemaster pointed behind the mount pen, and took her horse saddle off the fence. 

She glared at the buck standing in front of her, big, gentle eyes in contrast with the sharp nip he’d given her. Taking his saddle from Master Dennet, she mumbled muffled words to the the hart and led him out of the wooden enclosure.

“He is a handful. Good luck.” Dennet patted the hart on its buttocks and nodded.

“Does he have any name?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Pride of Arlathan. Not a name, just the breed.”

“Pride it is,” she said and stopped on the cobblestone road, ready to mount up.

She was too short. There was no way she could reach the stirrup from a flat ground. She trailed back and stopped by the pen, using the planks to climb up, which got her another bout of laughter from Dennet. The stablemaster handed her the bags, still laughing. 

“Safe travels, Bookkeeper.”

She pressed her shins together and the stag moved. She was awed at the amount of muscle under her and sat in the saddle lightly; it would take a while to get used to so much raw power under her command. She leaned back, and they set out on a long journey descending into the Hinterlands.

\-------------

She stopped Pride near a rounded hut in the Crossroads, and slid off the hart. She’d stopped feeling her bottom some time ago, blood returning back with a tingle. She pulled the heavy saddle and bridle down, untied her bedroll, and let him graze on prickly grass. Taking a careful look around, she noticed the village was overflowing with a small Inquisition force on a move and merchants heading further north, weaving through the chaos without a second glance. She took a handful of dry hay and rubbed the stag dry, massaging his long, graceful legs for a moment.

“Long way from home?” asked a deep voice behind her. She finished her task and turned to see a short, burly man near a small campfire.

“Indeed,” she replied. “Is there a tavern I could visit?”

“I’m afraid we’ve got nothing like that. But if you need, you can sleep in my place. For a coin.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Just like that? What about you?”

“Well, I didn’t say you’d sleep in my bed, did I? You sleep on the floor. I’ll sleep over at Mira’s.” 

She measured him with a dubious stare. 

He shrugged. “Don’t worry. One scream and the entire Crossroads is in the hut, their pokey noses deep in my business. I am not fond of that.”

“All right. Thank you.” 

She slipped him half a sovereign and watched him open the door. He pointed on a patch of floor near a modest fireplace, and she threw her bedroll there. The hut was small but tidy, and the man clearly lived alone. A few bows hung from a wall, and an open chest near his bed overflowed with cured hides.

She sighed and sat down on the ground, stretching her legs. She liked riding, but there was a limit to it, and she’d crossed that threshold two days ago. 

She opened her pouch to find that Sera had her last word after all. She’d snuck a small wheel of very fragrant cheese in Bookkeeper’s pouch before she left Haven. Bookkeeper fished it out of her pouch and puckered her nose.

“Damn.” 

Holding the wheel at arm’s length, she offered it to the hunter standing at the door. He wrinkled his nose and promptly covered it in several layers of cloth he pulled from under the hides.

“Maker, woman! That’s not something to carry around in a thin bag.” He laughed. “But it’ll go nicely with the roasted ram I’ll make tonight.” He saluted her with a smirk and left the hut.

She took the moment to rest and closed her eyes, listening to the lively murmur of the Crossroads behind the open door, enjoying the short moment of peace.

\--------

Later that afternoon,she led her stag toward a derelict watchtower looming over an unkempt cobblestone road. The stone walls were crumbling  on the road underneath it. She let Pride graze and slowly walked in circles, searching for the manuscript. She couldn’t imagine someone would forget a book in a place like this. She entered an empty room in one of the two connected towers. Nothing. Frowning, she pried the half-broken door from its hinges and let it fall aside. She stood on top of the wall connecting both towers, facing the crumbling hole. 

“Of course,” she snickered.

She knew her luck. The book had to be in the inaccessible part of the ruin. 

She jumped over the loose rocks and reached the second tower. Old, rotten scaffolding leaned on its wall. She tested its stability with one foot, then quickly stepped over it onto a ladder. It was fragile but held her weight. mall rocks and old planks covered the top of the tower, and several books lay among the rubble. She whispered thanks and placed all the books and scrolls she could find in an empty pouch, carefully avoiding a pile of sun bleached bones. She shuddered and eyed a rusting dagger nearby, lodged into a yellowed ribcage. 

“Friendly folk,” she whispered and jumped off the tower, landing on her knees. She shook her head. Overestimating her own abilities seemed to be her new hobby. 

She tied the full bag to Pride’s saddle, and strolled further into the wilderness, the mount trailing behind her. Many houses had been left abandoned in the ongoing conflict. People often left books behind; stories on paper were not something one packed while fleeing war. Feeling like a scavenger, she searched several damaged huts scattered in the countryside, one house covered in so much moss that she doubted anyone had lived there for years. Tucking three more prints in her saddle bag, she mounted up and lead Pride back to the Crossroads.

She dropped the bags near her bedroll, and took a stroll through the village. Only one stall was up, and the man behind the counter was selling all kinds of wares: short swords with skillfully carved hilts, little wooden statues of various deities brought to him by the Dalish, dried herbs, and all kinds of of trinkets. She picked a small carved leaf pendant and examined it.

“What did he want?” said a deep voice nearby.

“He asked about Montilyet,” answered a second, younger voice.

She glanced over her shoulder and spotted two Inquisition soldiers, heads close together in a worried discussion.

“Our ambassador? Did he say why? Did you get his name?” asked the taller, balding soldier with the deep voice.

“No...he walked away when I asked. He looked Dalish, but I don’t remember any clans camping nearby. Should we send a word ahead?”

“For every blighted refugee who asks for people in charge? Maker, no. Just keep your eyes peeled.” 

They both started the opposite way, and she turned back to the merchant. Unsettled from the conversation she had overheard, she paid five silver for the tiny pendant and strolled back to the hunter’s hut, dusk sun illuminating her footsteps. The hunter was preparing a heavy chunk of raw meat near a newly built fire-pit, Sera’s stinky roll of cheese set aside on a smooth, flat stone.

She greeted him and helped him roast the meat, discussing weather and bandits he’d encountered that afternoon. After a short meal, she bade him good night, threw a bit of fresh hay near Pride and disappeared inside the hunter’s house. He’d lit a small fire in the chimney, and the hut was bathing in warm light. She pulled her short bedroll closer to the crackling flames, stretched her feet to the fireplace, and drifted off.

\-------

Run!

Thick, black smoke surrounded her. Sharp bony fingers clawed at her from all directions, pulling on her skin and flesh. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t- … breathe-

“Braska! Breathe, woman!” 

She bolted up, her hands pressing tightly against her chest, sharp pain beaming in her lungs bolting through her. Another pair of hands let go of her shoulders and she turned to look behind her, milky fog lingering in her sleep-dazed mind. A  bronze skinned elf was kneeling behind her. He held two long, sharp daggers in his grip, the blades reflecting dying embers from the fireplace. He threw one arm over his knee, his gaze fixed on her.

The fog of her nightmare slowly receded, and she stiffened.

There was an armed man merely an elbow’s distance from her. A man who snuck up on her while she slept, with weapons unsheathed. The thin blanket of her bedroll didn’t offer much protection against a blade. She swallowed and turned to face him, meeting his curious brown eyes. The air in the cabin was thick with tension, and seconds stretched into an eternity. She slowly exhaled.

He gave her a small, lopsided smirk. “Ah, that was rather unexpected, yes?”  A small tattoo adorned his left cheek.

She furrowed her brows and stared at him in silence. 

“Does this happen quite often?” he continued, untroubled.

She nodded. Was he...having a conversation with her? She brushed her fingers through her hair. “Who are you?”

“Your saviour,” he replied with a mocking bow. “A simple hello would do perfectly fine next time, my dear lady. Choking isn’t my favourite condition to attend to.”

She blinked twice and looked around the hut. “Why are my books all over the place?” 

“I was hoping to find something of value.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. Is that so surprising?” 

“Did the books try to assault you?”

“Oh, yes. Rather a dangerous print, the metal bound one.”

She shot him an incredulous glare and he grinned in return. She got up to tidy her scattered manuscripts - she needed to do something normal in such an absurd situation.

He stepped back and leaned on a wall, watching her scurry around and pile the books back in order. She finished and faced him, folding her arms on her chest, her voice dripping with mistrust.

“An armed book thief.”

He let out a laugh. “Yes, one with the letter knives always ready at hand. I must admit, this was not my original plan at all.” He shrugged and stood back up. “But that is the nature of things. They change.”

“What was your original plan?” she asked, eyeing his polished blades. “Were my guts involved?”

“Such a crude idea you have about me. My plan was to take anything of value and run off into the night, of course. Although...” He tilted his head. “Rumour has it you might know Lady Montilyet.”

She scowled. “Josephine? Why?” 

“It’s a delicate matter. One I cannot discuss freely with anyone but her, I am afraid.” He started to close the distance between them.

“And I should just...take your word for it. Because you’re obviously nothing more than a sneaky book thief.”

“Very sneaky, I promise.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “And what will you do if I refuse to keep you company?”

“I will find another way to...persuade you.” He now stood only a step away.“Or I will simply find her without you.”

She kept her eyes glued to his leather armour and bit her lip. Leading an obviously dangerous man in the heart of an unsuspecting enclave bore trouble, and she wasn’t willing to give someone up that easily. On the other hand, she was on the wrong side of the blade. As casual as he acted, she didn’t doubt he knew well how to put those blades to a good use. Sensing her inner battle, he reached out and lifted her chin with two long fingers.

“Shall we?” he asked.

Her heart stopped and she stared, transfixed.

He flashed a wide smile, a devious sparkle appearing in his eyes. “Ride, my dear.” He nodded at the hut door and she exhaled, her heart resuming a proper beat.

She packed her bedroll and books, and saddled her mount in a rush. Pride was nervous, and the elf avoided the stag in a wide circle on the way to his own chestnut. Rubbing his left shoulder, he muttered things about big evil harts and their wicked teeth.

She led Pride to a large tree stump and stepped up, using it as a platform to mount the stag. The elf laughed, throwing his head back.

“This makes me wonder. How do you manage in flatlands?”


	7. Chapter 7

They rode in silence through the rest of the night. She watched the sun’s morning rays kiss an increasingly barren landscape, and rubbed her cold-bitten cheeks. Thick layers of snow blanketed the mountains ahead of them, but the frozen trail they rode had no signs of it yet.

Bookkeeper yawned, her limbs heavy. 

Only wind and the hollow echo of shoed hooves sounded through the narrow mountain pass. She heard his saddle squeak under his weight as he turned and sized her up. He pulled his mare’s reins, stopping at a small clearing with an abandoned wooden hut, partially hidden in the crooked, dry arms of young trees. An ancient tavern sign hung over the door.

He dismounted near an old well and balanced his saddle  carefully on the well’s rim. When she slid off her own mount, her knees buckled, and she landed with a quiet huff, the prickly grass crunching underneath her feet. It was easy to forget how far from the ground her saddle was when riding Pride. She saw the book thief snicker and pull a heavy plank of rotting wood from the ground; with a single swing, he shattered the thin layer of ice covering the water inside the narrow well.

Then he disappeared inside the derelict tavern, leaving her alone. A thought briefly danced around her mind; she eyed her hart, his saddle hanging over the ice cold water, and the route stretching and swirling around the clearing. A route that lead to an Inquisition camp. Or the Hinterlands, if she’d started in the opposite direction. She caught her cheek in her teeth and frowned.

Pride nudged her away from the well and dipped his heavy head inside, loudly gulping water. She shook her head and followed the elf inside the building.

“She remains. I’d bet my finest leather boots you’d run the moment I turned my back on you.” He watched her, expression curious and waiting.

She shrugged. "You'd catch me five minutes down the road. The hart is sturdy, not fast."

“The hart is evil, most of all.” He touched his shoulder, frowning. 

She smirked. “Pride bites people he likes. You should consider yourself lucky.”

“Then I don't want to see how that creature treats its enemies. But indulge me, my dear lady,” he asked, sweeping dust off the chimney, “why didn’t you shout for help? Most women would.”

“Most? What of those that wouldn’t?” 

A wicked grin spread across his face.  “They throw themselves at my feet, begging me to have my way with them. You are avoiding the question.”

Bookkeeper chuckled. He looked so self-assured, leaning on the collapsing hearth. She partially expected a sun ray to shine through the broken roof and illuminate him like an actor on stage.   
Battling a smile, she replied. “Silence just seemed a better option at that time.”

He folded his arms. “An unusual opinion.” 

“Maybe it is. To be honest, it was an instinct.” 

She turned around, facing the open door. “Better one victim than many.”

He beckoned her out of the tavern and they returned to the well. She rummaged through her things and pulled a small pouch of dried fruits out her saddle bag. Chewing on a sweet apricot, Bookkeeper offered the snack to him; a playful grin stretching across his handsome face while he tasted the dried sweets. 

He came closer and patted his mount. “I take it you are not the ‘falling down at my feet’ kind a woman. A shame, truly.”

The longer she looked at him, the wider his smile became. She glanced up and puckered her nose.

“Tempting. But no, I am not.”

“The nights are long and cold in the mountains, my friend.”

She leaned on Pride’s shoulder. “I can always cuddle up with the hart.”

“These things you say. I am wounded!  Do you truly prefer a smelly goat over me?” he asked, feigning outrage.

“The smelly goat doesn’t bring knives into the foreplay.”

“Your tongue is sharp as one, does that not count?”

“I wouldn’t want to cut you in the wrong parts by an accident.” She used the well to mount up. “Weren’t you in a hurry?”

He shook his head and laughed. “Yes, my friend. We should move on.”

They mounted up and rode till a blood red sunset claimed the paths, tainting the Frostbacks in sinister, ruby light. They reached a small Inquisition camp just as the last rays brushed over the snowy mountaintops. Three scouts hooded in green jackets greeted them and murmured something with the book thief. He kept nervously glancing around the camp, unusually quiet. The book thief scowled when he glimpsed a lone rider heading into the mountains.

“We will not arrive unannounced,” he said tensely. 

She shrugged and dismounted, no longer caring about grace. Leliana had always been careful, and Bookkeeper was grateful for that. The guilt of letting him tag along without a fight had been gnawing at her most of the day, waiting at the back of her mind. Waving the other two scouts good night, she picked an empty tent and all but dove in.

\-------------

Bookkeeper was drifting off when she felt a soft blanket thrown over her and a strong hand pulling her closer to a warm, firm body. Half awake, she mumbled in protest, but the fog of dreams was too close to resist and she sighed, stretching against the warmth. A pang of headache nudged at her but quickly fled. Welcoming the white haze settling over her mind, she relaxed.

She woke up alone. She crawled out of the tent, only to find the fire pit cold and the other tents collapsed, snow silently falling over the abandoned camp. Confused, she looked around. The book thief was gone, the scouts were gone, and even the he mounts were gone. A barely discernible trail of hoofprints led away from the place;she tucked in her tunic and rushed to follow them. 

The trail ended abruptly, falling off into a deep valley; rough, ragged stones poked through the fresh layer of snow, their tips glistening with fresh blood. She gasped and backed away, hand shooting to her mouth. 

She scrambled back into the camp. Her tent lay in disarray, trampled into the ground. She took a panicked look around and swallowed, sweat beading on her forehead. Where was the armed thief when she needed him? 

She spotted a wooden wall near the camp, hugging the steep mountainside. It looked like another abandoned tavern. Prying the rotten door open, she stepped inside and surveyed the dim room. A thick layer of dust covered everything. The forgotten furniture, the old fireplace, the bodies strewn like rag dolls. 

Bodies. Her legs refused to move; she watched a fresh pool of blood appear underneath one of the small, dusty heaps of clothes.

“No, no, no,” she whispered. Three little shapes, all suddenly bloodied and battered like broken dolls. “No!” 

She pressed her eyes closed, covered her ears, and curled up, feeling a tight squeeze on her lungs. She gasped for air. 

A shadowy shape whispered in her mind. “Yes, yes! Give in to the feeling, little one. It consumes you!” 

She clawed around and pushed her legs into movement, stumbling out of the awful house, back into the open air. The tents were gone too--only the snow remained, and the terrifying shadow crawling inevitably toward her. 

She forced her stinging lungs and heavy legs into a quicker and quicker tempo up the hill, the dusty snow swirling around and snatching at her like tentacles; she ran until she could not breathe and had to stop, landing on all fours, the snow receding and leaving her on hard, cold stone. She crawled forward, and crashed into a wall.

An endless, hazy barrier stretched in front of her. She touched it, pressed against it. Unmovable. She couldn’t see anything but dim shapes forming beyond it. The whispers were closing in and she lashed out at the barrier, only to be forced back.

“Give in to the feeling…you cannot escape…” Hissing like a hostile wind in the mountains, the figure crept closer and closer.

“No!” She cowered and curled against the wall.

There was no way out. There was no way back. Tears started to escape and she whimpered, making herself as little as she could, hoping to disappear.

She heard a faint scratching on the other side and looked up, her vision watery. A large, white wolf pressed against the barrier behind her. The wolf howled, and the pursuing shadow screeched, backing away. 

“You must tear the barrier down! Quickly!” 

The wolf... she scrambled up on her knees, placed her cold palm against the wall and closed her eyes. But there was nothing she could do. The freezing barrier warmed under her hand, and when she opened her eyes, she saw a hand pressing against hers on the other side, a familiar shape leaning closer.

“Solas,” she gasped, trembling. 

“Bookkeeper, you have to focus.” She saw him lean toward her and took a breath, feeling safer. Stronger. 

“I...don’t know what to do.”

Solas’s answer came quickly, calm but firm. “Think of the barrier. Forget about anything else, and remove it. Do not doubt yourself.” He placed his other palm up and she brought her hand to it, feeling the warmth seeping through. “It is your barrier. You must tear it down.”

Placing her forehead against his shadow, she closed her eyes. She focused on his presence, on the barrier standing in between them. She forced her mind into one direction and pushed all her thoughts away. A moment passed and she started to shake, the barrier still unmoving.

“Stay strong,” he whispered.

She took a deep breath and opened her eyes, looking through the wall. She could see his eyes clearly now; the wall had thinned. But she had no more energy. No more focus. She slid down against the barrier, tears dropping on her cheeks. She felt Solas move with her, trying to reach her. 

The creeping shadow crawled closer, sensing its chance. “You cannot win, little one. Give up. Let me help you.”

Its bony fingers grasped and snatched at her clothes. She gathered her last threads of strength and screamed, slamming her body against the wall. 

It shattered into a thousand little pieces, showering her in sharp shards, and a pair of hands pulled her close, rocking her, calming her. The creeping shadow vanished. She curled in Solas’s lap and trembled, weak and lost.

He leaned closer, warm hands gently brushing her hair away from her face. “Wake up.”

\-------------

She twitched and woke with a gasp. The dream slid away, the grasp of the nightmare weakening. She felt a hilt of a weapon painfully pressing against her back, as if it had been there for a long time. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she stretched. There was a heavy hand thrown over her waist, a warm body pressed against her back – it was the thief’s dagger pressing against her side. 

She froze mid-move. 

“Good morning,” he mumbled in her ear. “Did you know you are a terrible sleeper?”

His chest trembled in muffled laughter as she turned to face him. She had to check - was it only a weapon pressing against her? He caught her inquisitive glance below his waist and laughed out loud; her cheeks turned cherry red. He got up and adjusted his weapon belt ostentatiously.

“We should go. Unless, of course, you would like to...cuddle some more.” He eyed the covers suggestively and she crumpled them and threw them after him. He left still laughing, letting her recover alone. Bookkeeper sat straight and brushed her hands over her face. As before, the night terrors left her, forgotten in the light of the morning. 

She pushed her head out of the tent and saw him sitting by a small fire, chewing on savoury dried meat and drinking from a little metal mug. The morning breeze carried a smell to her. Coffee. He raised the cup in a silent invitation and smiled, handsome and confident. She wrinkled her nose but couldn’t refuse. How long has it been since she had coffee? A sudden, bright light nudged inside her skull – so long she was unable to remember.

She stumbled and her fingers flew to her temples with the pain of forgotten memories pulsing through her skull. She took a jagged breath and regained her posture, then strolled to join him by the fire. The scouts moved away from the pit, smiling and chatting, looking from her to the book thief and laughing; giving them enough personal space to – oh, really now? She glowered at them.

“Let them dream, my friend.” He winked at her, his playful smile back.

She shook her head and took a cup of the bitter brew he offered. “I don’t even know your name.” 

He tasted his coffee. “And it is better to keep it that way, trust me.”

“Sneaky and secretive book thief?” 

“You don’t play the innocent ingenue well. I suggest adding a dash more shock and some puppy eyes. Definitely more puppy eyes.” He glanced at her. “Now you are smirking.” 

He sighed and looked in his cup, stirring the black liquid and inhaling the rich aroma. “Regarding my…unconventional way of greeting and inviting you to travel along.”

She sipped – the coffee was divine and she said nothing, unwilling to focus on anything but her brew. 

He chuckled at the sight and continued. “I have…stumbled upon…a certain document, which indicated that a certain someone could be in terrible trouble.”

“Oh?” She looked up, thinking of Josephine. The dark haired beauty didn’t appear to have many enemies. His “stumbled upon” also sounded suspiciously like tripping over a murdered body. 

He sighed. “I knew that...a mutual acquaintance would appreciate me taking that particular document to her, repaying my debt. All I was looking for was some traveling company.” He tilted his head, measuring her studiously. “I cannot afford a grand, bloody entrance. When I got wind of an Inquisition archivist frolicking around the Crossroads, I saw my chance.” 

“Frolicking?” she repeated.

He raised his brows. “Is that all you took away?” 

“I don’t frolic.”

He chuckled. “Instead of finding an old, frail librarian as I imagined, I found you. But as you can see, everything worked out nicely.”

She shot him a sharp look. “Did it, now? I am being dragged across a mountain range in the company of a complete stranger, who seems to be about to murder someone I know. I don’t see the part where everything goes ‘nicely.’”

“I can promise you I will not murder anyone in your presence. I am here to help...as unlikely as it may seem.”

She worried her lip and stared into the orange flames in front of them, an angry wrinkle forming between her brows. When she looked back at him, his brown eyes were still locked on her face. She sighed. Her mind was exhausted from her dreams, her situation, and her failings.

She forced a smile on her lips. “I hope you are. I truly do.”


	8. Chapter 8

She loved riding, but this trip was pure torture. Her ribs ached with old injuries, and the cursed man insisted on riding through the night, trying to reach Haven as soon as possible.

He stopped his chestnut and dismounted, the long, frosty trek taking its toll even on him. He helped her slide down and offered some dry, hard bread with cheese of...unfamiliar origin. They ate in exhausted, heavy silence as the mounts grazed on tall, spiky moss. A half-moon shone through lazily drifting clouds, and a looming cliff cast long, ominous shadows across the little clearing, shielding them from an icy breeze.

"We're almost there," he said. He saw her slouch on the hart, her eyes closing.  "No, no. You have to - " She stumbled and he moved to steady her.

She sighed. "I'll be fine." 

"I have never seen anyone asleep while standing. Admirable, truly."

He took the stag’s reins and tied them to his mare’s saddle, then effortlessly lifted her and helped her mount his horse. She felt a feather of a touch as he swung behind her and pulled her closer, placing her head under his collar bone.

Bookkeeper let the rhythm rock her into fitful rest. Her body ached and her mind wandered, never fully asleep, but never truly awake. She heard his heart beating at a steady pace, and felt his armour under her cheek: the unusual smell of finely worked leather, and warm skin underneath. His breath tickled her neck and she smiled. The night was still dark and deep when he pulled the reins of his mount and bend to whisper in her ear.

“Our journey is at end, my friend.” 

Bookkeeper opened her eyes, her lids heavy. They had company.  Leliana stood at the entrance gate, arms folded and an unreadable expression on her face. Sera was there too, aiming a gleaming arrow at the thief’s heart. Two guards with unsheathed weapons approached them and Bookkeeper straightened, her mind suddenly alert. She glimpsed Solas standing near the quiet stables, a cold gleam in his eyes.

She patted the thief’s arm. He released her and she slid down, trying to recover from her uncomfortable nap, back aching and head pounding in the chilly air.

“Zevran.” Leliana’s voice sounded displeased. “I am not exactly happy to see you here.”

Zevran chuckled. “Ah, is that how you greet an old friend? Don't worry. I will leave once we have discussed this...little problem.”

“And you couldn’t send a messenger?” 

“No.”

Leliana stepped back, clearly surprised. “All right, let’s hear what you have to say.” She nodded and he dismounted.

Bookkeeper watched them stroll away, their heads close and tones hushed to whispers. The two guards followed and Sera smirked. She took a step towards Bookkeeper but stopped in her tracks. Solas walked up to her, his face unreadable.

“A word?” He beckoned her to follow him and she quickly untied her bags, heart rate climbing.

Solas led her across Haven, light-footed in the fresh layer of snow covering the ground. Bookkeeper slid her books behind the tavern door and followed Solas up the stairs. She stopped and hesitated at his house, but he opened the wooden door and stood waiting. She swallowed nervously and stepped in. 

He closed and locked the door behind him.  “I wish to discuss something important with you. But first...have you lost your wits?” he asked coldly.

She blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“You brought an assassin to his mark.”

“No...I - maybe?” Bookkeeper furrowed her brows.

Solas folded his arms across his chest. “Did you  take his company voluntarily? You disappoint me, Bookkeeper. This is behaviour worthy of a  child, too young to think of consequences.”

Blood rushed to her cheeks. “I am not a child.”

“That is a matter of perspective.”

“Excuse me?”

“If age could be defined by experience, you would be nothing but an infant.” A storm lurked in his eyes.

She took a step back and narrowed her eyes. “That’s unfair, Solas. I may not have arrived with a knife to my throat, but I certainly haven't invited that man into my embrace.”

“You seemed comfortable enough to sit in his lap.”

“I was tired. Would you prefer me in a pool of blood? I'll make a note to oblige next time I happen to encounter a killer.”

He said nothing, distant and cold. She leaned back on his desk and held his unrelenting gaze. Shadows from the fireplace danced on his face, pupils wide in the darkness. She brushed her fingers over her pendant. Like lightning, the nightmare came back to her and she gasped.

“Oh, God.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “The dream-”

“-is the actual issue I wished to discuss. It will have to wait until you are more rested.” Solas sighed. His features softened. “I apologize. I snapped at you with little reason.” 

She hung her head, replaying the conversation in her mind. Where was the calm, gathered mage? With a lopsided smile, she asked, “Was that possessiveness I heard a moment ago, my dear apostate?”

Solas frowned again and clasped his hands on the small of his back. “I was merely concerned for the safety of Haven.”

“Haven? Not mine? Here I hoped you missed me. You are such a terrible flirt.”

“I did not flirt.” He glared into the crackling fire.

She leaned closer. “Solas, are your ears turning pink?”

“They are not.” 

“Oh, they definitely are.” She gently brushed her fingertips across his ear, and he jumped and rounded on her. 

His breath feathered over her cheeks as he bowed his head close. “Do not play with fire, Bookkeeper.” 

She drew a long, deep breath and closed her eyes for a fleeting moment. Solas’s pupils were dark, his pulse visibly fluttering a, wild tempo underneath the skin of his neck.

“Maybe I just need to bring enough ice for the wounds,” she whispered and brought her palm to his face.

He trapped her fingers in his hand, preventing the touch. “You do not wish to walk this path.”

“Oh, but I do.”

“It is not-”

Bookkeeper shook her head, pulling up a wall of indifference. “Don't worry, Solas. I won't pursue unwilling prey.” She hesitated, lingering in his touch, then pulled her hand out of his firm grasp. 

Solas’s nostrils flared as she retreated, his cold mask back in place. “You should rest now. We have much to discuss once you wake up.”

Pale blue light shimmered in his hands, and her eyes shut against her will. He caught her fall. She heard his heartbeat deep as he laid her down in duvets. She wanted to protest, but her body did not respond.

“I apologize. With luck, you will thank me tomorrow.”

Her mind slipped into darkness, the maw of nightmares gaping ready.

\------------------------------

Bookkeeper wandered green, lush paths of a thick forest when she heard a rooster crow. She stretched and curled back under the soft blankets surrounding her, unwilling to let go of sleep. The quilts smelled of smoke and elfroot, with a musky undertone. She smiled and hugged the covers. It was one of the most comfortable mornings she’d experienced in weeks. The soft, cool fabric skimmed over her cheek and she took a deep breath, enjoying the unfamiliar smell. 

“Oh!” She bolted up. A treacherous blush crept over her chest to her ears, and spilled over her face.“You put me to sleep!”

She took a look around and spotted Solas sitting by his desk, bent over a sheet of paper. He turned when he heard her gasp, goose quill still in hand.

“Good morning,” he said with a half-hidden smile, “You were tired. I did not see any harm in helping you sleep.”

“I honestly don’t know how to reply to that.” 

She suddenly hid her face under her palms. For the first time in a long while, she hadn’t had a nightmare. On the contrary, she’d dreamed of something she’d be ashamed to mention even to Sera - and she talked intimately with the rogue all the time. She cleared her throat and peeked between her fingers. Solas watched her, an amused glitter in his eyes.

“I set wards for the night to keep you safe. The outcome was...unexpected.” He pushed his chair away and strolled to the fireplace, poking logs around. “We need to discuss your situation. But before we do...” He turned to her, a broader smile cracking his usual mask.

She felt another rush of blood in her cheeks. “Yes?”

“I fought two desire demons in the Fade. Ah, are your ears turning pink, Bookkeeper?” 

Damn her dreams to the deepest corners of the Fade. “Please tell me you did not walk in my dreams tonight.” 

“You appear to be far more innocent in the waking world.”

“Ugh, you did. Any chance of maybe...forgetting it?”

“You may rest assured that your surprisingly scandalous imagination will have...a special place in my mind.” Solas’s smile was unusually wide. 

She grimaced. Too flustered to recover and quip back, Bookkeeper sighed and threw the bed covers aside. He shook his head and motioned for her to stay; the glimpse of playfulness disappearing quicker than a snowflake under a summer sun.

“The night before you  returned to Haven, I believe you walked the Fade consciously. You barely escaped  demonic possession.” He looked at her like she was some sort of intriguing puzzle piece. “You have, without a doubt, power dormant in you. It attracts the beings of the Fade, so you must learn.”

“Learn?” she asked.

“You cannot wander aimlessly in the Fade as you have been. You will not survive your first encounter with temptation. Your emotions and desires will inevitably attract spirits. And not always friendly ones.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I will help while I am near. But you must learn to protect yourself.”

“I am not sure I fully understand, Solas.”

He exhaled and paced around the small room. “For now, let me aid you. Understanding will come naturally as you learn.” 

“I can try...I guess.” Whatever Solas thought she’d done, it didn't make much sense to her. 

He paused for a moment. “The barrier you keep in Fade is only the beginning. We will speak before night falls.” 

Suddenly, a lopsided smile spilled over his lips. “I suggest you leave before everyone in Haven assumes you have jumped from the killer’s lap into mine.”  
She threw the covers off and bolted out of his house as if it was on fire. At the threshold, she stopped and looked back, grinning.

“Not a bad idea, you know.”

Bookkeeper stopped dead in her tracks just outside of Solas’s hut, astounded by the amount of men and women pouring in through the main gate, all clad in polished armour. She took a moment to admire Cullen organizing the incoming forces. Something in him unsettled her; a feeling she couldn’t shake off. A handsome dark-skinned man marched by his side, green eyes scanning the incoming ranks. The Herald stood tall and proud in front of them, an aura of self-importance and satisfaction floating around him.

She let some of the reinforcements pass, jumped off the stairs leading to the Singing Maiden, and entered.

“You!”

“Sera?”  Bookkeeper called out.

Sera slid down the ladder, clutching a book – Vivienne’s tome. A tome with metal adorned edges that she brandished like a shield...or a weapon.

“Sera, please don’t throw that at me.”

The elven girl narrowed her eyes.

“Come riding back on some friggin elf’s crotch.” Sera threw the book to the ground and clenched her fists. “And then you go and spend a night with that dusty arse what’s-his-name! Not even a Hi, Sera, how’ve you been?  Bloody fine, by the way, not like you give a toss!”

The tavern went silent, few patrons who sat by their drinks furtively watching the exchange.  Bookkeeper stared, motionless, while Sera glared right back at her..

Bookkeeper pressed one hand against her temple in an attempt to stave off  an inevitable headache. She took a deep breath and looked into Sera’s oddly pained eyes. 

“Sera.” Bookkeeper said softly.

“Don’t Sera me! Piss off!”

Sera stomped out of the tavern mumbling about stupid elves, leaving Bookkeeper alone with the entire tavern crew expectantly staring at her. She slowly picked up Vivienne’s tome, dusted off the cover, and headed toward the Chantry. 

Maybe if she pretended that nothing had happened in the past hours, it would all go away.

“Darling! You look terrible,” said Vivienne by way of welcome, delicate skin damp from a bath. “And you have my tome! I knew I could count on you, my dear.”

Vivienne took the book from Bookkeeper’s unresisting grasp and pulled a modest pouch out of a small drawer in her desk.

“Here. The second tome has been spotted in Exalted Plains, and it should be safe for you to travel in a week. It is a dreary place, do prepare yourself.” Vivienne shoved the little leather pouch in Bookkeeper’s palm, several sovereigns clinking inside.

Bookkeeper nodded and left the building. She just wanted to find an abandoned hole to crawl in and disappear for the rest of the day. A man strolled by and stopped without warning, making her bump into him.

“Sorry,” she said, running fingers through her hair. What more could happen today? 

A familiar, amused voice replied as Zevran turned to her. “I have left a small token of gratitude for you in the tavern, my friend.” He bowed and took a step forward, snow crunching under his leather boots. “It is an odd name you took - Bookkeeper? I hope you will find a better one.” He bowed his head. “Until we meet again.”

Bookkeeper watched him depart and heard light footfalls behind her. Leliana stopped by her side, watching Zevran’s disappearing back.

“Sera ran off into the mountains,” Leliana said. “Rumour has it that you two had a break-up fight after you bedded our good apostate...and after arriving in the embrace of a mysterious stranger, under the cloak of night.” 

A mischievous grin spread across Leliana’s usually composed face. And Bookkeeper could only imagine the glee on Varric’s face once this story reached him.

Bookkeeper pinched the bridge of her nose and chuckled. “Bar falling out of the sky, I can hardly imagine a worse mess at the moment.”


	9. Chapter 9

\-------

Bookkeeper pushed all her focus forward, peering at her own hands, fingers relaxed and open. A film of sweat started to form on her forehead. She huffed in frustration. Tenth day of trying in vain.

She stood amidst grassy, gentle hills that formed around her and flowed into nothingness, shifting like lazy waves on an ocean. She hadn’t quite mastered her focus within the dreams; hills definitely weren’t supposed to move. But green hills were better than the barren, frozen landscape from before. 

The glistening, hazy barrier stood once more before her. It did not allow her to cross further into the Fade but it protected her too. She spotted flickering lights from wisps, a glimpse of surreal spirit forms, even the shadow of a demon on occasion; the denizens of the Fade swarmed around her little experiments within dreams.

Bookkeeper closed her eyes, clearing her mind. She suddenly thought of Sera and felt her fingers tingling; a translucent, cloud-like bow appeared in her palm, unsure of its own shape. She stared at it for a long, hesitant moment. On a whim, she stretched her hand as Sera did, and touched the ephemeral string of light. Her trembling fingers went straight through the bow. 

Steadying her thoughts, she took aim and formed an arrow, shooting it into the Fade. It flew with an otherworldly grace, quicker than its wood-crafted counterpart, and landed with a barely audible whisper; the arrowhead left a pool of pale light, like a mage’s barrier in the waking world.

She shook her wrists and the bow dissolved.

“Fascinating,” she said to the thin air, staring at the site of impact. A milky white spirit appeared behind the barrier, watching her every move.

Bookkeeper glanced at her hands - she had to try again. It was harder and required more focus from her, but she managed to repeat her cast. She laughed out loud. She finally had a means of protecting herself in the Fade. Bookkeeper smiled and danced few steps, the spirit form happily mirroring her motions.

\------

She woke up shortly after and washed the dreams off her face. A small blue rune glowed on the wall - a ward Solas had cast the previous evening to ensure her safety. Bookkeeper left the former apothecary’s cabin after gulping up a quick breakfast and headed into town.

She and Sera had tread carefully around each other over the past days; Sera called her daft every time Bookkeeper joined Solas in house to learn how to properly focus her mind. Which was, admittedly, harder than she had anticipated. 

Bookkeeper poked her head inside the tavern. “Sera?” 

“Yeah?” A tense voice echoed from upstairs.

“I need a favour.”

Sera scoffed, peeking out of the attic. “Oh, now she comes, right?”

“You are skilled with a bow.”

“I’m damn good.  What about it?”

“I could use...some tips. Can we talk at the training ground?” Bookkeeper pointed out of the tavern.

Sera shrugged. “Whatever.” She jumped down from the attic with a loud thump and picked her bow. “Not like the Herald needs me or anything.”

They stepped out and dodged few passing Templars. A massive force gathered in front of Haven, with the Herald nervously overseeing the troops’ movement. They were about to march back to the Temple of Sacred Ashes and attempt to close the Breach. Bookkeeper suppressed any thought about the venture; what would happen if they failed?

They weaved their way out of the settlement and closer to the mountains, where targets stood hidden under a cliff, some pincushioned with arrows.

“So what do you want to know?” Sera asked, arms akimbo.

Bookkeeper scowled at her hands. “Everything.”

Sera blew a raspberry at her.  “Bloody daft.  Don’t think that we have enough time for that.”

Bookkeeper chuckled. “How do you hold the bow properly? How do you align an arrow? How do you shoot stuff?”

A huge grin spread across Sera’s face.  “Watch and learn. Better than the creepy elf magic after all, innit?” Sera straightened and fired, narrowly missing the bull’s eye. “Piss,” she mumbled ,and hit it on her second attempt. Satisfied, she turned to Bookkeeper and handed her the willowy weapon. 

It was heavier than Bookkeeper expected, and it felt awkward in her hands. But she needed to learn. She let Sera guide her aim, and they spent the next two hours in careful, almost friendly training.

When Bookkeeper finally managed to actually hit target consistently, Sera clapped and ordered them back to the tavern. Just as they reached the building, a bright green glare flashed in the sky and the villagers started to shout, gathering around. Someone ordered a round of ale and in a matter of minutes, the whole settlement crowded together, drinking and celebrating. Bookkeeper glanced at the sky, an uncomfortable anxiety pressing in her chest. 

The Breach had been closed.

\------

Bookkeeper sat by the Singing Maiden, trying to read a book Zevran left for her. The light of a single torch illuminated her and she tried to shut all the revelry away from her mind. But the book…oh my. She opened it to the first page and had to stop reading after few verses. 

She could almost hear the handsome assassin laughing in her mind. Not for a public audience, he’d say with a wink and a grin. She took a deep breath and glanced back at the salacious poetry in her hands.

The symphony I see in thee;  
It whispers songs to me.  
Songs of hot breath upon my neck-  
Songs of soft sighs by my head-  
Songs of nails upon my back-  
Songs of thee come to my bed.

Her own imagination wandered off, and Bookkeeper groaned, frustrated. Solas stood near his house, unaware of the direction her mind drifted. She felt her ears grow hot and gritted her teeth. Feeling Cole's presence, Bookkeeper shook her head and tried to scatter her thoughts before he could piece them together. 

The spirit boy had come to Haven more than a week ago, and she’d quickly learned how dangerous it was to have her mind out in the open. Solas and her had a short discussion about Cole; Solas insisted on Cole being a spirit who crossed over from the Fade. On occasion, she would swear she saw Cole’s shape but not him, a breeze in a calm day. 

He silently appeared behind her. "Solas likes you too," he whispered.

"Maybe he does." Bookkeeper smiled.

She resolutely closed the book and shooed away another wicked fantasy forming around the sinful verses. Cole’s guileless eyes opened wide. Cheeks hot and tingling, she giggled under her fingers and turned to Cole. "Please, do not utter a single word of this to Solas."

The boy shrugged. He didn’t seem to grasp the concept of shame, and disappeared as quickly as he came. She caught her nail on the edge of the shameful Antivan poetry and bit her lip. She decided to blame the book and sighed. Sera’s drunk voice resonated from the tavern, and Bookkeeper tucked the little volume under her arm, deciding she needed much more air.

She strolled to her cabin and stopped outside. The wind was dizzyingly cold that evening, and she didn’t own a proper coat yet. Without a further thought, she grabbed one from a pile of clothes she’d brought inside for mending and marched out; leaving the celebration behind, climbing away from where the Breach violently swirled only half a day ago. She heard a thud of hooves on the ground behind her, and Pride trotted over, searching for carrots in the borrowed cloak. Bookkeeper pushed his nose away and patted the coat’s empty pockets, only to realize whose coat she stole. Thick, warm fur curled over her shoulder and tickled her chin. Too far to turn back, she shook her head, placed the dirty poetry in a pocket, and climbed further away from Haven. 

She needed some peace from her own thoughts.


	10. Chapter 10

Bookkeeper reached a small clearing of old trees and puffed out a cloud of frozen air; her chest burned from the strain of a steep incline, but nobody would disturb her for a while. She hoped her thoughts had stayed behind, too. Pride sniffed the fir trees, carefully chewed on the prickly branches, and quickly spat them out. She smiled and patted the hart on its furry neck.

Bookkeeper took a slow, deep breath, stretching her lungs to capacity. Arctic breeze, silence, and seclusion - a soothing mixture for her soul. She gazed down into the valley, sprawling under her like some distant, surreal memory. She could see figures moving around, dancing, running, walking. Songs carried through the mountains, and fires flickered everywhere in the settlement: small, cozy places for people to share their happiness and hope for better future.

Pride suddenly bolted up, ears alert and nostrils flared. 

The loud, terrifying roar of a warhorn resounded in the valley. Bookkeeper jumped up, eyes wide in shock. Hundreds of torches descended on Haven through the mountain pass, a tidal wave about to swallow its victim. She’d missed their approach, her back to the fiery ocean the entire time.

Bookkeeper dashed down the mountain path, using the snow to dampen her hasty descent. She heard Pride bellow behind her, nervous with the shifting, uneven terrain underneath his hooves as they ran. People in the valley were shouting, scattering, the Herald and his companions clustered at the main gate. They frantically waved people inside, weapons ready.

They were closing the gate. She called out but the scream of the skirmish was louder. Bookkeeper slid and landed on all fours, only few hundred meters from the entrance. The gate had been shut and sealed, and the roar of the battle grew louder than any of her calls. So close to safety but trapped outside  the battlements, she had no chance of running through the massive force knocking on Haven's door.

Metal clanking, bow strings singing, fires erupting: she stared at the unfolding horror before her, heartbeat wild. She was caught between Haven’s defenders and assailants, frozen in place.

A distant memory pushed against the reality. Searing white light crept up inside her skull and an otherworldly black smoke began to swirl around her wrists. She shook her hands, frantic. The brightness in her head flared as the smoke condensed, becoming more and more solid.

"No!" She commanded her mind firmly, fists on her temples. The light receded and the black cloud thinned. But she had been too loud. 

One of the enemy soldiers heard her exclaim and started after her, an eerie ruby aura emanating from his entire being, bright red crystals growing from his armour…from his body.  From his skull. 

She couldn't move, mesmerized by the sheer bizarrity of the sight. He sprinted with blinding speed and closed in on her in a matter of seconds, swinging a heavy sword over his head,. He stutted halfway through the strike, and a slow, thin stream of blood trickled down from a hole in his throat. She couldn’t take her eyes off the glistening arrowhead thrust through his neck, the monstrous soldier dying in a choked, bubbling breath.

“Run!!” 

A sharp, pressing voice shook her from her terrified stillness, and she stumbled back, gaze still glued to the lifeless body before her. The swirling darkness swallowed her entire palms and started to form into a shape - one she recognized and quickly moved her hands to dissolve. 

She pulled herself up on Pride’s bare back, and the buck took off into the mountains in long, terrified leaps. The mount stopped only minutes later, a mist of frozen droplets forming around his drenched skin. They were back at the clearing, hidden behind the line of old spruce trees. 

She slid down and knelt, dizzy and nauseous. Bright vermilion colour glimmered on Pride’s fur; she touched his stomach, following the wet line, trying to locate the source of the bleeding. But the blood only colored the tips of his hair. 

Bookkeeper swallowed, shuddering. 

Her cloak had been ripped on one side and her tunic flapped in torn pieces in the polar wind. A lazy stream of blood slowly pooled under her knee. She winced and touched the warm, ruby drops. 

A cut stretched from her collarbone down past her ribs; now that she was out of immediate danger, she could feel it. Throbbing, burning, the purest kind of pain she could feel - it all hit her at once.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Moaning in pain, Bookkeeper gritted her teeth. She covered the injury with a clean part of her shirt, crossed the coat flaps over, and tied it around her waist. The razor sharp stabbing from rough linen touching her open wound slowly receded, and she lay down, letting the snow soothe her aches. Her fingers tingled; the sinister black smoke floating around her hands materialized into a bow, wispy and unformed. She shook her wrists violently, and the smoke disappeared again.  Was it magic? Back to the Fade?  She couldn’t hold onto any of her thoughts.

As the bow slipped away, so did her mind, darkness claiming her.

\--------------------------------------

A shudder bit into her cold body, and she felt a sharp, unforgiving bite on her ear. Pride nipped her ear, trying to wake her up; she must’ve passed out.  She looked up to see a vast cascade of snow burying the valley, completely dark and empty of life. Silence, hostile and unwanted, settled over the ruins of Haven.

Further along the horizon, she could see a snow storm gathering in the peaks. Harsh wind licked the treetops and bit into her flesh, the frigid air burning in her lungs. She curled up in the coat, tucking her head on her chest; at least her injury didn’t impair her movement. 

Bookkeeper pushed herself up and patted the hart, patiently standing next to her. She hissed as her clotting wound cracked from her motion and started to trickle anew. 

“Oh, Pride…” she whispered, cuddling up to the animal. She struggled up on his back and pressed her shins against his chest, urging him into slow, cautious descent. Without a saddle, she kept sliding on his withers, too tired to care about the discomfort.

They reached the plain where Haven once stood - now buried under a cold, unmoving mass of snow. She made out shapes of collapsed buildings, protruding frames of siege weapons, spikes of the battlements and… Oh, please, no. 

She leaned back, forcing Pride to stop in his tracks. Blood drained from her face and she covered her mouth. 

So many dead. Still, cold bodies poked out from under the snow mass wherever she looked, their faces painted ghastly blue. A whimper formed in her chest and she covered her face. 

Breathe. As if he stood next to her, the memory of Solas shook her from shock; she leaned forward and Pride continued, carefully measuring his steps through the ruins.

Unsure where to go, she stopped the stag and slid down, trying to avert her gaze from any human shape buried in the glistening snow. She stepped around the fallen, crushed stones and broken wood spiking out in dangerous angles. Wandering without aim, she stumbled over the place where the Singing Maiden used to be. Bookkeeper fell to her knees. A loud sob gathered in her throat and few ragged gasps later, a desperate, otherworldly scream escaped her, resonating within the valley and echoing back to her. 

The wind carried a desperate plea to her, a fading whisper.  “Ma halani...”

Bookkeeper bolted up and struggled her way toward the voice. Hope mixed with dread within her heart. Unable to see, she spun on her heels several times, until the whisper urged her again.

“Please...” 

“Minaeve…” Bookkeeper answered, her voice breaking upon the sight of her elven caretaker.

Strands of red hair sprawled from under the collapsed apothecary building; Bookkeeper bent to a crushed body, slender frame still, Minaeve’s skin fused with her dark robes across her body.

She was still alive, but trapped under the snow and collapsed building frames, she had no chance of escape. Her breaths were shallow and irregular, and Bookkeeper forced bitter tears to stay inside, biting her own cheeks. She held Minaeve’s cold hand; and big, pleading green eyes turned to her.

“I can’t…feel…anything,” the apprentice whispered, words catching on her lips. 

Bookkeeper silently gave thanks for the small mercy.

“I lay here…for…hours.” Minaeve sighed the words, exhausted. Gluing her eyes to Bookkeeper’s face, she continued her plea. 

“I am…tired of waiting. Please, help me.”

Bookkeeper’s mind went blank. “Minaeve…I don’t think I can-“

“Ar…av’ahna ma, lethallin.”

Bookkeeper slumped to her knees. She couldn’t possibly – she couldn’t –

She pressed her palms against her face and exhaled deeply. She had never harmed a person. She had never harmed any creature, not intentionally. And now she was going to take someone else’s life?

She took a quick look around, and picked a short sword before she could talk herself out of the intention. A cold, merciless burden of steel, no use to the dead anymore. 

The ominous shadow returned to swirl around her wrists, trying to form a shape - the more despair Bookkeeper felt, the darker and thicker the cloud grew, trying to create a bow, resisting the sword clutched in her hands. After a moment, it settled over the sword, enveloping it entirely within its darkness.

Bookkeeper shivered at the sight. She moved to cup Minaeve’s head in her lap. Sitting deep in the snow, Bookkeeper put her trembling hands on the woman’s frozen cheeks.

Minaeve lifted a corner of her mouth in a sad, gentle smile. “Thank you.”

Bookkeeper rested the sword tip on Minaeve’s chest, between two ribs, black smoke spilling over the apprentice’s body. She shut her eyes, uttered a silent prayer for the life she was taking and leaned her full weight on the blade. Minaeve took a few final, ragged breaths, and fell silent.

Bookkeeper pulled the weapon out and let it fall beside the lifeless body, a muffled thump of bloodied steel on snow. Barely breathing, she stumbled away and landed on all fours, sobbing and retching. She curled up on the unwelcoming ground, and let the unnatural silence surround her. 

Feathery, heavy snowflakes fell in dense curtains over the battle-torn valley, and the wind blew a harsh song within, but she didn’t care. She simply wanted to lay there and let the white blanket cover her with the rest of the departed bodies. She wanted to slip from the world in peace.

But Pride raked the ground next to Bookkeeper’s head, bleating and nipping. When she smacked his nose, the stag her in the waist in return,, ears twitching and pointing towards the frozen lake near the enclave.

“Enough!” she said after a second bite and scrambled back on her feet, hugging Pride around his neck. Her skin throbbed from his teeth. “Why can’t you let me die in peace?” she mumbled in his fur. 

Bookkeeper swept the freezing tears away from her face. The snowstorm quickly became relentless, and it was impossible to see more than few meters ahead. Her wound reopened near her collarbone and stung like a thousand little pins, making her hiss in pain whenever her tunic touched it.

A dim green light flashed near the lake. Bookkeeper frowned and stopped in her tracks, then started to run, swearing. 

Only an idiot runs to a friggin light in the woods, she heard Sera scoff in her head. 

Eventually she staggered toward a small cave entrance, green light flickering from the narrow space. She heard howling and screeching from inside, a small explosion, and then the green light dissipated, silence falling over the valley once more. 

The hart's ears prickled towards the cave and she sighed. The prospect of creeping through narrow caves made her skin crawl. She dove in with more confidence than she felt, omnipresent coldness seeping into her limbs. A long, broken plank lay on the cavern floor and she picked it up, in case she needed a weapon.

With short breaks to listen, she finally reached a cavern full of...something. Green and grey sludge scattered on the stone, nothing she had seen before. A slumped figure sat by the cavern wall. Bookkeeper darted over, recognizing the bearded, battered man slouching on the cold floor.  
"Trevelyan!" She shook his shoulder and he grumbled, lifting his confused eyes to her. His Anchor glowed dimly, the wrist of his hand red and swollen. He look exhausted, flinching in pain whenever he moved his legs.

She glanced down. Both of his kneecaps were misplaced. "Shit."

"Quite right." He chuckled and exhaled heavily, wincing.

She withdrew, trying not to look completely despondent. He couldn't possibly walk like that. He’d most likely crawled there, and fought - whatever those creatures were - then collapsed against the wall. He had a slight smile playing on his lips. 

He stared at the trail of blood she was leaving as she paced. "You're hurt." 

She stopped her step and glimpsed the thin red line. Droplets, nothing more. She would survive...with luck. "You too. We need to get you out of here." 

Wood, splinters and thick cord protruded from the mass of snow above them. The ruins of the trebuchet frames. A rope. That could work. 

She turned back to the weary man cowering in the corner. Trevelyan was resting his head on the wall behind him. His breaths were shallow, like Minaeve’s before she--

She knelt and sharply poked his shoulder. "You have to keep awake." 

He grunted, his head swaying to the side.

"Trevelyan! Don't you goddamn dare!" she yelled, only a few inches away from his face.

His eyes flew open, and he smirked.

Bookkeeper mercilessly shook his shoulders, glowering and talking to him as she would to a disobedient child. "Stay. Awake. I will be back in a moment."

She ran out ignoring her own pain, patted Pride on his back, and backtracked to the buried settlement. She had a goal at last: She hurried into the rubble and found a broken trebuchet, partially sunken in the avalanche. She quickly searched the area and grabbed a long knife sticking out of the snow. Trying not to think about the blood still coating weapon, Bookkeeper cut two long pieces of the heavy rope, and dashed back to the stag. She threw a piece over the mount’s withers and tied both ends to a longer rope around his chest, creating a makeshift harness.

Bookkeeper took few deep gulps of the winter air, leaning on the patient animal, her injury throbbing a burning beat. The snow glowed with an eerie light, and redness seeped through wherever she rested her eyes, her own blood leaving a barely discernible trail underneath her soles. Her pants were thick with frozen blood on one side. She frowned, glaring at her leg. How long could one go leaking like a faulty container?

It didn’t matter for now. She needed something to help Trevelyan move. Mustering all her strength, she pulled a mostly intact door across the snow. Two planks on its frame were broken, but it was still wide enough to carry a man. Without a second thought for the wisps of white cloud gathering around her wrists, she secured the door to the ends of the rope and stepped back, admiring her rough work. Pride didn’t seem to appreciate his new role but pulled the primitive sledge without a protest. She led him back to the cavern entrance and rushed in, praying she wasn’t too late.

The Herald of Andraste’s eyes were closed. His skin was too cold, and his breaths were irregular and weak. She grabbed his muscular shoulders and shook him with her remaining strength. 

"You don't get to fucking die on me now, Trevelyan!"

His eyes flew open, alarmed, then furious. 

Bookkeeper sighed in relief. Anger was as good as anything to keep his blood pumping.

"You came back." He stretched out his hand, as if trying to see if she was solid. 

"I can't let the Herald of Andraste die on me now, can I?" 

She bent down and threw his arm around her shoulders. Pain forced her down as he leaned on her collarbone. She gritted her teeth, and silently wiped away the sudden tears of pain as she pushed herself up. Or tried. 

That man was heavy. Cursing like a mad sailor, Bookkeeper dragged him from the cavern on all four instead. They both collapsed on the makeshift sled, Trevelyan’s hand thrown over her waist. 

She felt him shift next to her as he groaned,  "I could die like that." He tugged on her waist and let out a pained chuckle when she sat back up. How could the man sound amused at a time like this?

“They...left that way,” Trevelyan hissed, motioning far into the mountains.

Bookkeeper set out in a slow, weary tempo, deep into the mountains. She was not sure if she should ask Trevelyan who left that way, and whether it was a good idea to follow. But he didn’t protest, so she held her peace.

A distant, long howl echoed in the mountains; Pride pointed his ears and bleated nervously, and she decided to follow the wolf cry in the dazzling whiteness. Where wolves are, prey is. Where prey is, safety lies.

The white hell swallowed them. Cold, feathery messengers of slow death fell out of the angry sky, carried on gusts of piercing wind. She could hardly imagine how the Herald felt, lying immobile, mumbling in protest whenever the hardy mount picked an uneven path under the treacherous blanket of snow. Only crunching steps bore any proof of their presence within the sparse forest. 

Bookkeeper noticed blackened wood logs in the distance, and rushed ahead, her heart pounding. A fire pit. Cold. Drained, she sat down in the snow, eyes closed. The laceration pounded with every pulse, a painful, constant rhythm of life. Sitting caused some of the forming scabs to open again, and she started to have trouble feeling her shoulder. She slouched against a thick trunk of a tree and moaned, hugging herself. 

"Ah, now you are giving up," Trevelyan slurred from his primitive sled, words muffled by chattering teeth. "You're a pitiful sight, Bookkeeper." The Herald lifted himself on one elbow and peered her way. "I recall you wanted to call me names to keep me awake." Perversely, he almost sounded...cheerful?

His lips were blue, his skin waxy. She wished she knew how to mend dislocated knees. But she didn't, and she had a gnawing feeling that even if she did know, her frozen fingers wouldn’t let her do it. 

She scrambled back on her feet and pulled herself up on the hart. They traveled in heavy silence. Pride suddenly stopped, and Bookkeeper lifted her head from his mane. Another fire pit appeared in front of them, black and dead. She gracelessly slipped down from the mount and poked the pit, then spotted few dim embers and whimpered.

Yes, heavens, yes. 

The burnt wood carried no heat to help her violent tremble. Bookkeeper checked on the now unconscious Trevelyan and tucked the coat around him. She rose, stiff as a plank, and prodded Pride into a walk, following the narrow path dug out by the makeshift sledge. 

She bordered on total exhaustion by the time they neared the top of the mountain pass. Her thoughts floated aimlessly, in a slight haze, blood frozen across her body.

She felt so cold. She embraced the dull, chilling sensation spilling across her limbs. With it, she could ignore a lot of the pain and push on. The whiteness enveloping her wrists sprawled further and covered all three of them in light mist, dimly glowing with a pale, blue light.

They crossed the peak of the pass and Pride paused, ears pointed. Deep in the valley ahead, yellow and orange fires flickered. She spotted auburn tents, people. 

"Thank you, thank you," she gasped, and slapped the mount on his hind legs, sending him to carry his charge down to safety. The buck trotted down, Trevelyan insensible but alive, curled in a fetal position on the wooden planks. She heard Cassandra exclaim in shock, and the rest of the Inquisition all hastily gathered around the Herald, uncovering him, patting the hart, happy and worried voices in a confused babble. 

Bookkeeper watched from the pass, unsure whether she had enough energy to reach the camp. Oddly calm, she sat down and embraced the snowy duvet. 

Then she heard Pride bleat, turning her way. The hart pulled himself free of the crowd and bolted back in the pass. She heard the distant voices approaching as she slowly collapsed, ready to give up. 

The Herald was safe. 

The people of Haven were safe.


	11. Chapter 11

A cloud lazily swirled around Bookkeeper’s arms, a butterfly touch of cool mist licking her shoulders, her body, her entire being. She stood still, watching the magic flow as if it had a will of its own. She stretched one arm in the air, and the mist followed. 

The curious spirit appeared behind her barrier again. It came every night, waiting and watching. But not today. Today it shimmered, unsettled, gesturing at Bookkeeper to come closer. 

“Open,” the spirit whispered.

Bookkeeper frowned and placed her palm on the barrier. “I can’t,” she replied.

“Think,” the spirit answered. “You can.”

She looked at the incorporeal shape. It glimmered with same brilliant white magic as the cloud surrounding her body. Bookkeeper shut her eyes and imagined a doorway. The mist moved to her wrists, swirling and condensing as she touched the barrier. To her surprise, the white mist began to carve an entrance. 

Fascinated, she watched the alabaster shape enter through the new doorway and explore her little area of the Fade. 

Magicagic tingled alongside Bookkeeper’s arms and she felt its power seep through her. It seemed stronger, more potent than before, as if the spirit’s presence reinforced it. 

“Who are you?” Bookkeeper whispered, watching the denizen of the Fade.

“I am Hope,” it answered. 

“Bookkeeper,” she replied with a little bow. 

“No.” Its outline shimmered, and she suddenly got a strong impression of disapproval. “Your purpose is different.”  The spirit dissolved into the same mist as the magic floating around Bookkeeper and reformed before her, a translucent reflection of a young woman.

“Is this better?” Hope asked. Bookkeeper nodded, apprehensive, arms folded.

The spirit chimed with laughter. “I have no interest in crossing over.” A see-through hand pointed at Bookkeeper’s chest. “There is despair inside you. You need me.”

Bookkeeper frowned. “I don’t really feel desperate.”

“It hides from you, deep inside your mind.” The spirit danced few steps around, pulling the cloud-like essence away from Bookkeeper’s hands. “But you will  learn to see it, and I can help.”

“Help?” 

A sharp pang shot through her head. The spirit stopped moving, hands enveloped in the white mist she pulled away from Bookkeeper. A loud roar resounded through the fade, and Bookkeeper swallowed, feeling a film of sweat forming on her forehead. Her hands started to tremble, and the wisps of mist began to darken; the louder the roar echoed, the darker the smoke became, until she was drowning in a cloud of darkness. 

Hope stepped back, and the roar died out, as suddenly as it came.

“What...was that?” Bookkeeper asked, eyes glued to the emptiness of the Fade. 

“Your memories. You hide that part of you deep within.” The spirit approached her. “It is waiting. It will try to make you its own.”

“What do you mean?”

Hope turned to her, pointing at the blackness enveloping Bookkeeper’s being. “Despair holds your lost memories. I have come to remind you that even the darkest night can be broken by a single candle.” The spirit elegantly swept her hands, and the black cloud changed back to ivory white.

Bookkeeper glanced at her hands. “This magic. Is it your doing?” 

“The Fade is drawn to you, as am I. ” Hope tilted its spectral head. “I am a vision of a better future. I am comfort in the wake of destruction, nothing more.”

Hope pulled the white essence away from Bookkeeper’s wrists once more, directing it on the ground between them.  From it, Hope summoned a green sprout with two delicate pink leaves. The spirit watched the sprout slowly grow, then turned to Bookkeeper.

An ominous shadow appeared behind Bookkeeper’s barrier,  drawn by their creation and a purpose of its own. Bookkeeper shivered, and her magic grew thunderous once more, black smoke pressing Hope's little sprout into the ground.

She instinctively looked at Hope, and the spirit motioned at the ground. “Do not let the darkness overcome you. You only need a single ray of light,” she said, patiently waiting.

Bookkeeper drew a spectral bow in her hands, needle-thin arrow ready to fly. She released it with lightning speed, and a bolt of blinding light pierced the darkness, dispelling it back into the Fade, freeing the sprout from its prison.

Hope raised one hand and beckoned the sprout to grow, maturing into a twisting and flowing tree with luminescent purple leaves. Bookkeeper carefully touched its glowing white bark. It felt just like any other tree beyond the Veil.

“Beautiful,” she whispered, mesmerized by the sight. 

“It will remind you in your darkest hours.” Hope turned to leave, then stopped. “You must not linger here.  You must return to the waking world, and remind your companions of hope.”

Hope disappeared and Bookkeeper was left alone, standing under the magnificent tree. The thicker and denser it grew, the thinner her barrier appeared. She called the white mist to her and it settled around her hands; not sure what to do, she waited for the tree to tear down her protection. The moment the barrier let a shadow of Despair through, the tree stopped growing and loomed tall, its shadows growing denser by the moment. 

The demon was smaller than she remembered; it bared rows of sharp teeth as it scurried around, carefully avoiding the area shaded by the tree’s canopy. 

“‘There is  despair inside you.’” It mocked Hope’s voice and stopped, facing Bookkeeper. “Yes, little one. I bring no platitudes, only oblivion.” It hissed when a leaf from the tree landed near it, and jumped away. “Think of what we can achieve, together. I can feel your power. Now feel mine.” Despair shrouded the surrounding hills in darkness, impenetrable and deafeningly silent. An eerie violet glow illuminated both of them as the tree stood shining within the enforced night. 

Bookkeeper stared into the many jaws, rows of teeth glistening in the light. “No,” she refused, voice hard.

Despair flung its bony limbs down and leaned closer, darkness of its own magic blending with the darkness of the unnatural night. “So be it.  What you do not give at will, I will take with force.” 

She felt a shiver crawl down her spine and gritted her teeth. She closed her eyes and willed away the darkness, body trembling in the effort, her mind focused on the tree growing beside her. It took all her focus and power, but when she opened her eyes, she saw the green hills grow steady, unmoving in the newly born light.

“I will not be repelled that easily!” The demon hissed and opened its jaws, a razor sharp stream of ice violently cutting in front of it. 

“I said no!” Bookkeeper shouted. Now furious, she swung her hands and enveloped the demon in an impenetrable barrier, like the one that had separated them moments ago. Surprised by the sudden spell, she took a step back, watching as the barrier blackened and collapsed on itself, gradually crushing the demon into nothingness. 

“Shit.” She glanced at her hands and the shadowy dust at her feet. “This will require some training.” 

Uncontrollable magic was just what she needed  to finish off her day. She puckered her nose. Cullen would have her watched, fearing she was an abomination waiting to happen.  How many templars did he have left? 

She frowned. What did Hope say? She had to wake up, now. 

She firmly closed her eyes and pushed her mind out of the dream.

\------

Pain stretched across her side. Her head spun and she kept her eyes shut, listening. Silence, followed by crackling fire, hushed voices, and rustling cloth. She forced a deep breath into her empty lungs, and a loud, wheezing gasp escaped her.

“Fenedhis,” swore Solas’s familiar voice. “I feared I’d lost you.” She felt a soothing wave sweep over her body and opened her eyes. A pale blue light surrounded her as Solas focused, healing magic flowing into her. 

She lay still, watching his face. A worried wrinkle formed in between his brows. She wanted to touch his face and sweep the worry away. But she didn’t; instead, she curled her hands into fists and tried to look less like a silly infatuated girl after waking up from even sillier dreams.

“It has been seven days since your miraculous arrival, Bookkeeper. Everyone thought you dead.” Solas stopped his cast, exhaled and looked in her eyes. “The Herald survived, thanks to your assistance. He sent me to check on you.” 

His fingers absently brushed over her skin and she swallowed. Her throat was dry and prickly. The pain dulled, but her mind remained muddled, reality mixing with her dreams. Arrival? Haven? Her mind did not obey. She recalled a beautiful tree. Clouds of magic. Whiteness. Hope. Snow...and ghastly faces. Despair. 

Bookkeeper bolted upright.

“Oh, God. Haven,” she whispered. She glared at her trembling hands, partially expecting to see Minaeve’s blood. Black mist started to appear around her wrists and she quickly shoved her hands behind her back. She stole a glance at Solas, whose frown grew more pronounced. Bookkeeper closed her eyes and banished the magic back to the Fade, exhausted by the effort. She slumped back into the scratching grey covers.

“I see some rumours are proving true after all,” Solas stated dryly, grey eyes following her hand.

Bookkeeper scowled and shook her head. “We already talked-”

“This is no longer a matter of debate. I am not blind, Bookkeeper,” he scolded her. He stood abruptly. “Welcome back to the living.”

Bookkeeper couldn’t fathom his sudden mood change. She touched his arm, searching for any compassion in his wary gaze. “Thank you.”

He withdrew from her touch. “Do not thank me yet. You and I have much to discuss once you regain your strength.” His tone was cool and she backed away, confused. Why would simple magic unnerve an experienced mage like him? He left her tent without a backward glance.

Moments later, an old woman entered and handed her a cup of warm liquid. 

“Drink,” the woman said in a crisp voice. “It will dull your pain.”

Bookkeeper obeyed and carefully sipped. It was extremely bitter, and she twisted her lips in disgust. But the old lady stubbornly folded her arms, and Bookkeeper poured the stuff down her throat, wincing at the taste.

“Thank you,” she said through her teeth. 

The woman nodded. “Sleep. You will feel better tomorrow.”

Bookkeeper obediently pulled the blankets over her head and curled up underneath, falling into fitful sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

The murmur of morning life carried into the tent, and Bookkeeper sat up to inspect herself. Solas’s healing, the awful bitter brew, and her involuntary rest seemed to have worked miracles. The scar was long, pink, and uneven where it reached bone, and Bookkeeper made a face. Her vanity certainly suffered. Her side still ached when she twisted or stretched too far, but she was in walking shape. And she was alive.

She opened the tent flaps and peeked outside. They were still in the mountains. Draught animals kicked at dying fires as the Inquisition slowly packed for another grueling day. Men packed tents while women folded linen and helped the injured. The sun lazily shone with pink dawn light, casting long shadows over the chilly pass where they stopped for the night. A fresh layer of snow covered everything, but the morning sky was clear and promised a good day ahead.

“Shite, Bookkeeper.” 

Sera ran at her from across the camp. Bookkeeper opened her arms and Sera exhaled, wrapping her in  a careful hug.  Then, Sera punched her shoulder, frowning. “Never again, you understand?”

“I promise I will avoid creepy walking crystals from now on.”

“You better.” Sera eyed Bookkeeper’s borrowed shirt. “I saw the scar. It’s friggin huge. You ok walking like that?”

“I’m fine. I should help with packing. Wherever we’re heading.” She glanced at the rough landscape, stretching into the horizon.

“Elfy Elf says we’re almost there. Whatever ‘there’ means.”

They joined the others by the central fire,  gathering crates and linen. Bookkeeper helped tear down tents and harness big, intimidating brontos charged with hauling most of the Inquisition supplies, with Sera casually chatting by her side. She tired easily and had to sit down several times to take a breath and ease the pain. The Herald and his inner circle gathered ahead of the camp, with several mounts saddled and ready. Pride roamed the campsite without a bridle, rummaging through crates for snacks.

“We move!” The Herald’s strong voice resounded across the mountain range; he motioned forward, and the caravan started a slow crawl up the mountains with him in the lead. A heavy silence settled among everyone. Bookkeeper strode with Sera wordlessly, each lost in thought.

After a while, Bookkeeper heard light steps as Solas joined her. Sera snorted and moved ahead, shaking her head and mumbling something incomprehensible. He used a staff to support his steps and Bookkeeper ruefully wished she had one - as heroic as she might’ve appeared twenty minutes ago, she ached from head to toe with each step.

“I am glad to see you walking without difficulty,” Solas said. 

“Thanks to your care, no doubt.” She bowed her head in thanks. “I’ll remember to fall to my knees only when you’re near.”

Solas chuckled. “Be careful with such words, Bookkeeper. You may regret them later.”

“That is a matter of debate.” She looked directly in his eyes, one brow up.

He quickly hid his laughter and pushed ahead of her. Sera trailed back to her side, and Bookkeeper searched the crowd for familiar faces. She knew who she wouldn’t see; but seeing Flissa, Adan, and many others walking near, most of them unharmed, put her mind at peace. Everyone had expectation carved in their faces, following the Herald with Solas by his side deeper into the Frostbacks. It was a rare sight, too, as Solas and Trevelyan did not usually get along well. Anthony glanced over his shoulder after a moment and touched the small of his back. His lips stretched into a smile when he slowed down to walk beside her.

“Good to see you up and running, Bookkeeper.”

She nodded. “I see you have recovered as well, my lord.”

“You were a timely saviour.” Anthony wore a lopsided smile. “Even if a surprisingly foul mouthed one.”

Bookkeeper’s cheeks grew hot. “Ah, well. It kept you up, didn't it?” 

“For a while, yes. It kept me wondering what should I do to make you stop.” He laughed, then quickly sobered. “I am eternally grateful for your help, Bookkeeper.”

“Eternity is a long time, Herald,” said Solas over his shoulder.

Sera snorted. “You would know.”

Trevelyan laughed and hurried ahead to resume his lead. They trekked for hours, Sera and Solas by her side. Her scar started to throb with every step taken and she gasped for breath; she was running out of energy much quicker than she had anticipated. She glanced at the caravan animals. Due to the many injured, progress was slow. 

“I need to take a break.” She winced and pressed her hand to her waist. 

Solas stopped and beckoned her aside. “Stay here. I will bring a potion.”

She slumped down in the snow, folded her arms, and rested her head on her knees.

“Drink.” Solas returned with a small vial, and she gulped the medicine down, grinding her teeth at the bitterness.

Sera giggled. “That face. Priceless.”

“I’ll never get used to the taste. Thank you.” 

Solas took the vial and sat down, stirring the glittering layer of snow. He stared in the ground for a moment, silent, and Bookkeeper watched his chiseled profile. She worried her lip as her stomach fluttered. When he turned to her, she unashamedly beamed at him and watched his ears turn pink. 

Sera snorted. “You work out whatever you need. They’re better company, yeah?” She pointed towards the brontos and glared at the hedge mage one last time.

“Do not start,” Solas warned Bookkeeper quietly with a barely visible smile playing on his lips. She smirked, eyes glued to his pink ears. He brushed his hand over the tips, then grew more serious. “I saw the magic you summoned to your aid. It is no ordinary spell. What happened after Haven?”

Bookkeeper sighed and reached for her pendant, only to realize it had been missing since ever she had woken up. “Honestly, even I can hardly comprehend what happened.” 

“Try. I am more understanding than you might think,” he replied.

“I think you can figure out a lot from my injury and whatever the Herald mentioned ever since.”

“I am more interested in your command of such powerful magic.”

She laughed, a short and bitter sound. “I would really dispute the part about ‘command’. But...I have no idea. I unintentionally summoned a bow in the Fade.” Bookkeeper scowled and wiggled her fingers. “The magic has been haunting me ever since. Then, while asleep in the camp, I encountered a spirit.”

“That is not unusual in and of itself,” he said, attention fully on her.

“We spoke, and whatever this mist is, it became stronger in the spirit’s presence. I also...quite accidentally...killed a demon.”

“Accidentally killed a demon?” he repeated, disbelief written all over his face.

 

“Well, as I said...the ‘command’ part is not that great yet. But I was able to banish the thing.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t something I would actually do if I had to think about it.” 

Something in his expression softened.  “You worry what you could cause in the waking world.”

Bookkeeper nodded and took a deep breath. “If I’m stressed or excited, it pools around me. I might lash out, without wanting to do so.” She smiled. “I seem nice, but thinking about sticking that arrow in sensitive places does make everything easier.”

Solas chuckled. “I will remember to stay on your good side.” He stretched his hand and helped her on her feet; they hurried to catch up with the rest of the travelers. 

“Control your emotions, Bookkeeper,” Solas told her in a low voice as he set out ahead. “I will try to aid you once we settle down.”

She looked around. Mountains were everywhere. “Settle down? Where?” 

Solas caught up with the Herald of Andraste and beckoned the bearded warrior in between two steep mountainsides. He stretched his hand and silence settled over the caravan. 

“Skyhold.”

Bookkeeper paused her steps and admired the tall elven mage. He stood proud and kind as he watched the Herald trail off deeper into the valley; but then, for an instant, his expression changed. Solas emanated pure danger, and his eyes turned stone-cold. Bookkeeper swallowed as her pulse quickened and the magic manifested, ivory enveloping her fingers. 

Solas glanced over her. “Calm yourself.”

She took a quick look around and approached him. “You are hiding something,” she whispered.

“We all are.”

“No, Solas. This is different. I can feel it. Hope can feel it.”

His sudden attention sent a jolt of fear through her. “The Spirit of Hope, Bookkeeper? That is the spirit you encountered in the Fade?”

She nodded and took a step back, kicking up a puff of snow. The spirit’s interest honed in on Solas; it reached through the Veil, coating Bookkeeper in a thick, misty barrier. 

Solas paused, almost affronted. “I will not harm you.” He moved his free hand, and the magic dissipated.

She felt the spirit withdraw deep into the Fade and shivered. For a moment, she wasn’t sure what unsettled her more - that Solas so effortlessly dispelled wild magic, or that her connection to the spirit was now strong enough to feel its presence or absence. 

The knuckles on Solas’s other hand turned white as he clutched the staff. “Head to Skyhold with the others. I will seek you out.” 

He stared ahead. Something about her revelation obviously bothered him. He strode ahead to the Herald once more and she shut her eyes, asking Hope wordlessly to help her, not work against her. She felt the air around her shift ever so slightly, and the magic slowly licked her wrists, then quickly disappeared. She exhaled, suddenly feeling completely exhausted, and slumped down in the snow.

“Just ride already.” Sera approached with Pride in tow; both of them watched Solas with wary eyes as he disappeared down the mountainside.

Bookkeeper frowned and resolutely pushed herself on her feet. “No. I can walk.” 

All she wanted was a quiet, warm enough place to rest a little. Somewhere alone, where Hope wouldn’t scare the living daylights out of anyone with a cloud of strange magic.


	13. Chapter 13

Dust puffed in the air settled over everything, including her hair, face, and shoulders, too. Bookkeeper sneezed and waved her hands in a vain attempt to clear the thick, stiff air in the tiny basement library beneath Skyhold. 

She had stumbled upon it by an accident. She’d offered to bring a bottle of wine to the Herald, and with one wrong turn within the gallery room, she found herself in a dusty, forgotten corner of the keep. She’d backed out, snatched a random bottle from the cellar, and dumped it on a tray in the kitchen, asking the cook to include it with Anthony’s meal. Now she backtracked and stepped through the thick layer of dust in the room, leaving footprints everywhere. 

A massive tome rested on a reading desk, open in the middle; she skimmed through a really old spell book. She brushed her fingers over ancient shelves filled with untouched books, and the dust swirled in the air in a silvery puff. She started to read the titles. Many of the tomes were written in foreign tongues. She recognized Elvhen and Tevene, thanks to the two mages quietly coexisting within the hold rotunda, and looked over a book written entirely in some kind of runic language. 

She tried to retrieve another runic book but slipped and landed on her back, on the dirty stone floor. Her hair braid became loose in the fall and swept the remaining dust from around. 

“Great,” she mumbled and clapped her hands over her tunic, coughing and sneezing. 

A small, leather-bound print stuck out between several books about Ferelden wildlife; Elvehan Diis Falsis: Triew Metod Dracas glimmered in peeling letters along the spine. Something in the title unsettled her thoughts, pulled on strings of her forgotten memory. She took the book out and set it aside after wiping the worst of the dust away. 

This little hidden gem of a room was much more interesting than the big tower archive. She decided to return later in the day, armed with cleaning supplies, and  make it her new den. She dusted the worst of the dirt off her face, carefully poked her head out of the door - and bumped into a firm chest.

“What--” 

She looked up and saw Solas, brushing a dusty imprint of her face off his tunic. “What are you doing here, Bookkeeper?” He lifted an eyebrow at the thick dust in her hair and clothes. 

She straightened and kept her expression serious. “Keeping books, of course.”  

The corner of his mouth twitched. “Of course.” 

She hesitated. They had settled in Skyhold more than a week ago, and he had been oddly cold ever since. The dreaded conversation he had promised still hadn’t happened, and she glanced around, trying to pretend bumping into his chest was completely normal and didn’t require any further discussion.

Solas watched her for a while, then stepped around her into the forgotten room. He studied the titles on the bookshelves until his gaze caught the book she had pulled out.

“An interesting choice. I wasn’t aware that you understood Tevene.”

She shrugged. “I don’t. It just caught my attention.”

Solas faced her, a curious glimmer in his eyes. “And why is that?”

She blinked from him to the book and back. “I honestly don’t know. The title...it says something liked ‘the elven gods are false’, doesn’t it?” Bookkeeper sighed, studying him closely. “You seem upset.” 

“I am merely surprised.” 

She cocked her head and leaned back on the reading desk. “Why? I have a knack for running into trouble. I’d think you’d know by now.”

“The book is no trouble. It has simply been some time since I have met anyone truly curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” she mumbled, absentmindedly re-braiding her hair. 

His eyes gleamed with a strange light. “That is rather fitting in this situation.”

Bookkeeper froze mid-move. Solas quickly surveyed the hall, then closed the heavy door behind him. “I suppose this room is as good as any for privacy.”

A wave of panic swelled in her as she jumped off the table; her magic pooled and covered both of them in a thin barrier. “I say bed is better.”

His features softened, but he didn’t rise to her bait. “I pose no danger to you, Bookkeeper.” He motioned at the spell. “But you lack proper training. Commanding magic will be easier once you have the knowledge you need.” 

He took a step closer, wrapped his fingers around her wrist, and banished the spell back to the Fade with one wave of his free hand. “In your case, however, we may face a problem.”

She stared at his chest. He was too close. Too distracting. “A problem?”

“No Circle mage would dream of the Spirit of Hope offering assistance. These spirits are rare, and often very old.”

“So...why me?”

“That is a mystery to us both.” Solas stepped away, brushed his fingers over the dusty tomes and pulled one out, searching in the pages...and avoiding her eyes.

“You claim to be a wandering apostate, and self-taught at that.” Her heart skipped a beat. “So how did you just send something as old as Thedas back to where it came from?”

Solas quickly hid his surprise, his attention still fixed on the book. “A good question, Bookkeeper.”

“‘I have seen it in the Fade’?” A small smile played on her lips; Solas straightened, and she knew she’d annoyed him.

“That depends on one’s point of view. I have indeed encountered a Spirit of Hope, if that would satisfy your curiosity.” He bowed his head and set the book down. 

She sat silent for a moment, then looked directly in his eyes.  “What are you hiding, Solas?”

“I could ask you the very same question,” he replied.

“But I don’t remember. I doubt that’s the case for you.”

His answering laugh was bitter. He sat on the other corner of the desk, looking off into the distance. “And what will happen when you do remember, Bookkeeper? What if you were someone terrible? What if you did something so repulsive that your new self cannot live with it? Perhaps your memory fails to protect you.”

She frowned. “I...never really thought about that.” She briefly closed her eyes. “But I don’t think forgetting your memories completely erases your character...or the way you feel about things.” 

“Many reactions stem from one’s history. How would you know who you truly are?” 

She shrugged. “I wouldn’t. I would have to deal with it, if I remembered.”

He finally met her eyes. “Is it so simple for you? ”

“No. Of course not. We need to learn from mistakes. But dwelling on them is hardly a life worth living, don’t you think?”

“You would simply throw the past behind you,” he whispered.

She threw up her hands, surprised by his lack of focus. Silence settled over the small room and she started to draw circles on the dusty surface of the reading desk. 

“Maybe I was a terrible person. Maybe I did something bad. But should I let the regret take over? Define me? Or should I try to move forward, learn from whatever has been lost to me?” She sighed and rubbed her face. “But I admit...we are remembered more by what we destroy than what we create.”

Solas stared at her as if she’d grown an additional pair of ears, and she fiddled with her braid. “Tell me there’s no spider crawling in my hair.”

He stood up and smiled faintly. “I underestimated you, Bookkeeper, and I apologize for that. You are wiser than most.”

“I...thank you?” She must have looked very lost, because he lifted his hand and let it fall back down again. 

“I will leave you to your...book keeping. Seek me out when you have time. You need to master your gift.”

“Gift? Or curse?” 

“Only time - and training - will tell.” 

He placed the tome he was reading back in the shelf and took a step forward. She bit her cheek and touched his shoulder; she could always blame her boldness on on a bout of short-term madness. 

“Stay.”

He stood motionless for a moment, staring at the ground. She withdrew her hand and silently scolded herself for being thoughtless. She’d said she wouldn’t pursue him and yet here she was, begging him not to leave. 

To her surprise, he turned back to her. “It will only bring pain, Bookkeeper.”

“Why?” She inhaled the smell of smoke and pepper surrounding him and rested her hand on his heart.

Solas said nothing, and she made a long face. “Better not to ask?” 

“You learn quickly. Commendable.” Solas chuckled. 

“And you continuously underestimate my stubbornness.” 

Surprise flickered over his features when she lifted herself on her toes and pressed a tentative, soft kiss on his warm lips. Then common sense caught up with her.  Her stomach fluttered, and she stepped back.

“Sorry,” she whispered, a fierce blush creeping over her cheeks, and turned her back on him.  White mist swirled around her hands. What was she thinking? 

Her breath hitched when his fingers touched the back of her neck, and she pressed her eyelids tight, heart skipping a beat in vain hope. When she turned, the magic around her thickened and the coolness enveloped both of them. 

She was just about to back away when Solas pulled her back for a second kiss, hungry but gentle; heat spilled inside her as the kiss deepened and his tongue flicked to taste her. His fingers brushed over her nape and she brought her hands to his chest, his heart beating a wild tempo under her fingers. She traced his lower lip, gently brushed her tongue over his, and smiled when he let out a low groan. 

Breathless, Solas rested his forehead against hers and sighed. “We shouldn’t.” 

He took a slow step back and straightened, heartbeat visibly fluttering under the skin of his throat.

She folded her arms to hide her own treacherous trembling. “Remember when I said I don’t pursue unwilling prey?” He nodded and she threw her arms apart, magic shimmering wildly around her. “I lied.” 

Solas laughed - a completely heartfelt sound, unlike any she’d ever heard from him.  His gentle touch on her wrist banished the spell.“I am no prey, Bookkeeper. Tread carefully.”

With that he turned and left the small room, giving a curt nod to the bearded man standing stunned at the open door. He had to try to enter only a moment ago.

“Herald,” Bookkeeper sighed and covered her face. Silence settled over the small room, as thick as the dust carpeting the floor and shelves.

“I’ll just...come back later,” said Anthony.  He took a few hasty steps back, then abruptly stopped. “On a second thought, we should talk. Meet me in the war room in ten minutes.”


	14. Chapter 14

Bookkeeper dashed through the narrow hallway leading to the war room and skipped over a huge pile of earthen rubble. The dwarven mason was busy fixing ruined battlements into proper defenses, and the keep itself was still a work in progress. She stopped at the heavy wooden door and took a deep breath to calm her anxiously beating heart. With a light knock, she entered and quietly closed the door behind her.

Anthony stood by one of the large mosaic windows, staring into the snowy mountains, fingers running through his carefully shaped beard. The streaks of grey had become more prominent over the past few weeks, and the tired shadows under his eyes grew darker. He took a deep breath before turning to her.

“I would have prefered to know that you’re a mage,” he started, voice cold as the Frostbacks. “If nothing, it would help to ease the load on some of our healers--or battlemages.”

They were alone in the large room and her steps echoed as she approached the oaken table in the middle; she’d swear he could hear her heartbeat drum against her chest. Mindlessly, she started to play with one of the small figurines.

“Or do you have a reason for hiding your abilities from the Inquisition, Bookkeeper?” Trevelyan continued. 

She pinched her nose. Was fear a reason he’d accept? “No, I don’t. It’s quite...complicated.”

“How complicated can it be? Solas obviously knows. And yet he didn’t bother mentioning it either. I’ve sent for him already--but humour me.”

She strolled to a window and leaned on the cold wall. “I really don’t have an excuse. Not...a believable one at last.” She sighed. “Solas only noticed yesterday. He’s as surprised as you are.”

“He didn’t look surprised to me. As a matter of fact, he seemed very calm.”

Bookkeeper narrowed her eyes at him.  “And what would you have him do, my lord? Run around, flail his arms, and yell ‘There’s an apostate among us’?”

Trevelyan frowned and she rubbed her face, exasperated. “I apologize.”

The door opened, and Cullen entered with Cassandra in tow. They looked curiously from Trevelyan to Bookkeeper, and she realized they hadn’t been informed yet. Or maybe Trevelyan had thought it’d be better to talk to her first.

They greeted each other and when silence settled over the room, Trevelyan cleared his throat.

“It appears that our archivist here-” he gestured at Bookkeeper with a scowl, -”is an apostate.”

Three pairs of piercing eyes turned to her all at once and she grabbed the edge of the table. The stories about executions, murders and Tranquility flooded her mind. And here she was, being uncovered as a liar and a mage, in front of a former templar and a Seeker. Panic threatened to overtake her reason, but light knock announced a final party entering the room. She exhaled with more relief than she should - the sight of Solas calmed her jittery nerves.

He surveyed the hostile atmosphere stoically and positioned himself away from the group. She realized he wanted a good view over the room - a move which pulled at strings on her forgotten memory, but couldn’t quite reach its destination. 

Cassandra stood with her arms folded, sizing her up from under an unreadable expression. Cullen’s brows were knotted in a dark frown when he spoke, seemingly appalled. “I didn’t sense any magic in her.” 

Solas glanced over them. “Some apostates are not aware of their own gift. They assume a deity, or luck, or a trinket they carry is the cause of their occasional skill misfire. Some never learn that they are mages, and die thinking they were like any other person.” 

“Are you truly a mage?” Cassandra asked, turning to Bookkeeper and frowning. “That is rather...perhaps I should’ve asked you directly in Haven.”

Bookkeeper shrugged. “I wouldn’t have known back then.”

Cassandra’s eyebrows shot up.  “How is that even possible?” 

“Why don’t you tell us a little more?” Cullen suggested.  He didn’t move toward her, but his hand rested on the pommel of his sword.

Bookkeeper quickly peeled her eyes away from his hand and grimaced. “It’s hard to explain without sounding like one of Varric’s tales.” 

Cassandra scoffed and bid her with one hand. “If it’s unbelievable enough, I promise I’ll let you tell him first.”

Her eyes quickly darted to Solas’s and he nodded. She crumpled her tunic in her fingers and stood silent for a moment, then straightened and glanced around the room. Trevelyan seemed curious, while both Cassandra and Cullen wore apprehensive expressions. 

“All right,” she mumbled.  She was glad for Solas’s presence, a beacon of hope amid the storm brewing around her. With frequent glances at Solas, she started her story, hoping Cullen won’t smite her right then and there.

After nearly an hour, she’d finished answering various questions to at least partial satisfaction of everyone present. Solas stood at the back, listening to every word she carefully let out, while Cassandra and Cullen had doubt written all over their faces.

“Is Bookkeeper capable of controlling her new skills, Solas?” asked the Herald after a short pause in her confused explanations.

The apostate mage approached the war table and stopped by her side. “With proper training and enough time, without a doubt.”

“Should we inform Vivienne?” Anthony asked, a small smile tugging on the corner of his lips when he spotted Bookkeeper’s expression. “Dorian?”

“I will aid her.” With a curt nod, Solas left the war room. She watched him disappear behind the entrance door and forced her eyes back to the others. She met Cassandra’s eyes and and blushed, remembering the moment of intimacy in the small library not too long ago.

Anthony brought his intrigued, yet still doubtful gaze to Bookkeeper. “Considering our shortage in proper defenses, I’d like you join the mages defending Skyhold. Once Solas agrees that you are capable enough, you will travel on bigger expeditions. Our templars are solid, but we still lack capable healers.”

Cassandra nodded in approval of Trevelyan’s words and Bookkeeper’s heart skipped beat.

“I am no healer, my lord.” She shook her head. The image of Minaeve sprung to her memory and gnawed on her, bloody and ghastly, sending shivers down her spine.

“No, you’re not. Not yet. And maybe you’ll never be.” Trevelyan tugged on his beard, thinking. “But you have the means to prevent injuries. We need that as much as a healer’s hand.” 

She nodded nervously. With some difficulty, she stopped eyeing the exit and turned her attention back into the eerily silent room.

“Solas seems to think you are a spirit healer.” Cassandra pressed her lips in a narrow line.“I haven’t met one in years.”

Cullen grimaced and stepped away from the war table, fingers raking through his hair. The knuckles of his resting hand turned white on his weapon. “I knew one back in Kinloch Hold. His end...wasn’t pleasant. He was one of the first to turn.”

Unsure how to react, Bookkeeper remained silent and unmoving. Cullen was tense as a bowstring, watching her like a hawk.

Trevelyan stopped by the large mosaic window and stared into the mountains before he glanced back to the war table. “We will need every capable body at the siege of Adamant. I’m sorry, Bookkeeper. Until then, you are free to prepare as you need.”

Bookkeeper paled. “I...as you wish.”

“No more lies.” He glared her way, then hesitated. “Is you memory loss also a convenient cover up?”

She frowned and bit her cheek. “No. It’s not. Although I quite wish it was.”

Anthony let out a short, sharp laugh. “You do not, believe me. I’d be much less lenient than I am now.” He returned to the war table and slammed his palms against the oak, making her flinch.

“I want to be the first one to know the moment you remember anything. Do you understand?”

She took a step back. “Y-yes, my lord.” 

Anthony turned to Cullen, suddenly much calmer. “What about the rumours of red templars in Hinterlands?”

“We’ve had repeated sightings of strange red lights in the night. The Inquisition’s watchtowers have also been damaged.”

“I will take a short trip there, then. Cassandra, Bookkeeper.” With a short bow, he left the room and Cullen followed in his steps.

Silence settled over the room as Cassandra and Bookkeeper stared at each other. Several seconds later, Bookkeeper broke and excused herself. She hurried through the halls back into the small library. Once there, she took a deep breath and let a dark, thick cloud surround her.

“Close call,” she mumbled into the empty space and closed her eyes; Hope’s presence shimmered around her as the smoke dissipated. She had a lot of learning ahead of her.

\---

“Is that what they teach you? Much easier like this.” Hope chimed with delicate laughter and swirled her hands in a series of quick and elegant motions. The spirit was in her human form and patiently waited for Bookkeeper to perform her spell.

She gave the spirit an incredulous look. “Maybe if you repeat it? In a...much, much slower way.” 

The spirit’s appearance didn’t change, but Bookkeeper sensed the intention of a smile. Repeating the gestures, Hope bid Bookkeeper to cast the same rune on the infinite plain of fresh grass surrounding them. Bookkeeper slowly stretched her hands and moved them in flowing circles and waves. A small, dimly glowing rune appeared on the ground, next to Hope’s brilliant glyph illuminating the area with an eerie white light. Her rune was like a baby to the spirit’s, but it was the same, and that was all that mattered.

“Try again,” Hope danced few steps around the brilliant trunk while Bookkeeper focused. Slowly, she repeated her ward. She felt the spirit’s approval and looked up. Hope sat under the tree, playing with a purple leaf, using it to inscribe tiny letters she couldn’t make out into the bark.

“Again,” the spirit said, and dispelled all the runes littering the ground around them. Like cleaning a classroom board. “Put more you into it.”

Bookkeeper sighed and swiped a tiny bead of sweat from her forehead. Her mind was getting tired and her fingers shook. She confused a move in the rapid succession of swings and a dark green circle appeared on the ground. She froze and quickly glanced at Hope.

The spirit didn’t react for a moment, surprised by the shape on the ground.

Bookkeeper shuffled her feet. “I’ll take that as ‘please, don’t do that again’.” 

“Only if you wish to grow a tree of your own.” The spirit shimmered and swept her hand upwards, letting a violet sprout erupt from the rune. “An old glyph, forgotten on the other side.” 

Bookkeeper felt the air shift around her as Hope grew melancholic.

“No one uses it any more. Maybe, one day, we will hear the song again.”

“Where was it used?”

“In a world as forgotten as the glyph.”

“You seem to miss it.”

Hope handed Bookkeeper the tiny violet leaf. “I am always needed, no matter what the world looks like.” The spirit moved to dispel the remaining glyphs and left the shy sprout to strengthen on its own. “You grow stronger every visit.”

Bookkeeper smiled. “Thank you. It’s still pretty scary out of the Fade.”

“You find the Fade a place of respite. Unlike many mortals.”

“It would probably be much scarier wasn’t it for you.”

Hope rang with laughter. Then the spirit grew quiet and curiously moved around the tiny sprout Bookkeeper brought to existence. “I once showed this spell to a young, hopeful elf. I wonder whether he still remembers.”

“He’s still alive?” Bookkeeper lifted her brow.

“He is weary with grief. He does not wish to see me anymore.” The spirit glimmered, then motioned motioned to the ground. Bookkeeper sighed, feeling dismissed like a little child. She took a deep breath, and with a newly found energy summoned, a short row of bright protective wards.

“Excellent,” Hope replied and pushed another wave of energy her way. Bookkeeper shivered as the spirit fixed strange, translucent eyes on her. “More of you.”

\---

Dusk bathed Skyhold in orange light when she heard a large group of soldiers coming back from the Hinterlands. The small force had been gone for nearly two weeks, with most of the Herald’s companions staying behind in Skyhold, preparing for a bigger trip to the Western Approach.

Bookkeeper shifted her weight and sighed. She sat on a crumbling piece of battlements, staring far into the mountains.  She touched her cold-bitten cheeks, then hugged her tunic tighter, unwilling to leave her spot just yet. Sounds of harts and horses crunching on fresh hay carried up from the stables beneath her. She closed her eyes and imagined herself alone, far away from everything. From magic, from embarrassment, from mule-headed decisions.

She stretched her hand and called upon the white mist. It swirled around, then died out with no particular purpose to exist. She could command it better now - she’d spent long hours in rigorous training both with Hope in the Fade and Solas at Skyhold.

Footfalls crunched behind her and she opened her eyes. The tall frame and broad shoulders were a painfully familiar sight to her; she was supposed to be in the garden about half an hour ago, waiting for another even spent over books and glyphs. Solas would be completely proper and distant, and she’d try not to stare at the curve of his lips whenever he spoke. 

Half the time she couldn’t focus at all. Solas would stir too close or touch her arm to aid her in movement when explaining various wards and glyphs. Or he’d speak about the Fade and the spirits, and she’d stand grinning like a child in front of a candy shop, admiring his unusual passion for the land of dreams. 

Solas stopped only a step away from her. “You are late.” 

“Sorry,” she replied and huddled deeper into her tunic. “I needed to be alone for a moment.”

“Understandable. I can come later, if you wish,” he offered.

She shook her head. “No. Stay, please.” 

Solas chuckled. “The last time you asked me to stay, it led to trouble for us both.” 

She pushed herself to her feet. “I know I overstepped my boundaries when I kissed you. It’s just…” She sighed heavily. “I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.” Then a smile tugged on her lips. “If I can help it.”

They stood in a momentary silence, measuring each other with poorly concealed expectation. Still, she gasped in surprise when he pulled her closer and her hip bumped into his side. They were on the battlements - anyone who looked up would see them talking. 

Her stomach fluttered. A small smile played upon Solas’s features; faint laugh lines gathered around his eyes, and she bit her lip. Solas lightly brushed his thumb over the red spot and shook his head before he kissed the same place: a feather-light caress, a gentle flutter over the bite mark. 

With a heartfelt sigh, she placed her hands on his chest and he hugged her in return. His heartbeat thudded under her ear. Bookkeeper wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him closer.

“You are full of surprises, Bookkeeper,” Solas murmured in her hair. She felt the hum of his voice in his chest as he spoke. 

“So are you,” she whispered, and closed her eyes, savouring the peaceful moment. She could stand in his arms the whole night. 

A long, silent minute passed when she felt Solas shift against her. “I suggest we move to the garden and carry on with your lessons. Unless you wish to endure Varric’s rumor mill.”


	15. Chapter 15

Maryden skillfully plucked the strings on her zither, and her voice carried through the crowded Skyhold tavern. A delicately engraved redwood staff, long, rested against the wall - an odd sight amidst all the rogues and templars surrounding it. Bookkeeper glowered at it and worried her lip when Sera shook her out of her reverie.

“Nice to see you doubt it as much as me.” Sera glared at the weapon. “Should’ve stuck with the bow, yeah?”

Bookkeeper sighed and sipped a little of the bitter, cold ale in front of her. “Everyone insists that it’s for the better. Can’t really argue with them, can I?”

Sera rested her chin in her palm and grimaced. “Why not? Just tell them to sod off, and you want a bow.”

“I’m a terrible archer, Sera. You said it yourself.” 

Sera scoffed. “I’ll throw a cookie party if you hit a target in front of your nose.”

“See? But I can land a glyph right under you with my eyes closed. According to Vivienne, the staff channels the energy better than bare hands.”

“Ugh, don’t say that. I need to sleep, you know?” Sera visibly shivered.

Bookkeeper laughed. “Speaking of Vivienne - did the six legged lizards arrive yet?”

Sera punched her on the arm. “That...that. Thanks a lot! Now I won’t sleep for sure.” 

“It wasn’t my idea to prank people with lizards.”

Sera snorted at the thought. “What happened to yours?”

Bookkeeper sipped her drink and brought completely innocent eyes to Sera’s piercing her from across the table. “I let them out in the garden. And I kept the green one as a pet.”

Bookkeeper kept her expression dead serious. “Want to see? I’m sure he’s somewhere, if you only wait a little...” She started to slowly pat her tunic up and down.

In a blink of an eye, Sera got up swept the pub with a slightly panicked look. “Right. Tomorrow then.” 

Bookkeeper tilted her head. “You’re joining for Halamshiral? Did you finally buy new underpants for Trevelyan?”

Sera let out a short laugh. “No way! Thought you were staying behind to...do weird magic stuff.”

“Anthony wants to keep an eye on me.”

“Can’t blame him. Piss, a mage. Still can’t believe it.”

“Nothing I can do about it, really.” Bookkeeper inscribed a tiny rune into a mug just to tease Sera.

Sera scowled. “Stop it! You could just...forget it?”

“As much as you could forget pranking people.” Bookkeeper smirked, remembering the lizards running loose in Skyhold. Cole seemed more excited by the small reptiles than by bunnies. If Sera knew he was collecting them and caring for them only one story over her head, she’d never sleep again.

Sera blew a raspberry. “Yeah, right.”

Bookkeeper beamed at her. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.”

“Whatever. Nobs and shite don’t interest me. Night, Bookkeeper.”

Bookkeeper waved her off and finished her drink, then grabbed her brand new staff and dashed through the courtyard and main hall. Varric and Trevelyan sat over a meal, and she exchanged few pleasantries with them before leaving for her chamber outside of the main building.

Josephine had agreed to let her reside in the small, unused tower over the garden. It was a secluded place - as much as one could be secluded within a large keep. She had the greenery all for herself once the residents scurried off to their beds, and often trailed out in the night and sat by the well, staring into the sky. She could feel Hope’s presence very close within the garden, and often quietly talked to the spirit when they were alone.

Bookkeeper packed some of her simple linen clothes, three books, a small bag of dried fruits and nuts, and carefully placed an Inquisition uniform on the top of her things. She didn’t want to risk any creases on the formal attire. She would probably spend most of her time somewhere in a corner with servants, but disappointing Josephine nevertheless was not an option.

Bookkeeper eyed the three books she had hidden under the uniform and frowned. She patted down her tunic, then searched through the shelves where she stored her personal scripts. The Antivan poetry was missing. Her hand flew to her mouth. 

“The coat.”

The last time she’d seen the little red book, she was climbing into the mountains near Haven. She’d tucked it in a warm, fur lined coat. A coat that didn’t belong to her.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” she muttered. Maybe she’d lost it on the exhausting trek through the mountains? Solas hadn’t mentioned anything - and although he wasn’t Sera, he probably wouldn’t let the opportunity to tease her slip away that easily.

She sighed. Maybe it was better not to inquire about it at all.

Bookkeeper stretched her sore muscles and peeked out of the door. The night hung over the mountains like a heavy blanket, and the garden was quiet, with only three people chatting in the opposite corner. She recognized two of the elves, but the third one wasn’t familiar and she squinted his way. His vallaslin was in a shape of a tree, sprawling over his forehead, and he spoke quietly with the other two, glancing around. When he spotted her looking their way, he scowled and quickly strode away. The other two elves continued in casual discussion as if nothing had happened, and she shrugged. People.

She briskly crossed the grass and headed into the main hall, where Varric remained in a quiet conversation with the Herald. She waved at them and ran down the staircase leading to the small subterranean library.

Last night, she’d spotted a book high in the shelves - a thick, dusty tome. Unable to locate anything similar in the main library, she had decided to return and try to retrieve the book. Its cover was leatherbound and in golden imprint stated Dalish Myth and Collected Truths Against. She’d been looking for a book like that for some time and burned with curiosity, despite the fact that a Chantry sister authored the book.

She piled a double layer of sturdy tomes at the back shelves; they were no dwarven masonry, but she hoped they’d hold her weight. Bookkeeper stood up on her toes and touched the back of the book - the uneven support beneath her shook a little, and she grabbed the shelf to steady herself. A light click echoed through the room as the shelf snapped out of its position and shifted forward - destroying her makeshift ladder in the process.

Bookkeeper landed on her back with a graceless thump.  The book on Dalish myth fell on the ground next to her, and she dusted it off and clutched it like a shield. She’d somehow pulled the entire shelf away from the wall. She’d need to fetch Gatsi to fix it back in place.

She took a step closer, and  gasped in surprise. The shelf hung on a row of rusty hinges, and a gust of fresh air blew through the cracks on the sides. She bit her lip and briefly thought about how often she got herself in trouble before throwing caution to the winds.  

Holding her breath, she pushed the shelf aside - the wood snapped and creaked, then opened enough for her to squeeze through. A dark hallway spiraled down from the opening. Spiderwebs swung in the breeze and the rough stone walls were damp. Bookkeeper took a deep breath and stepped in, testing the crumbling, uneven ground underneath her feet. She glanced over her shoulder and checked the library door behind her. Closed.

Quickly, she grabbed a candle, put her palm around the flickering flame, and carefully walked down the hallway. After what felt like an eternity, she saw moonlight at the far end of the cave. Driven now by curiosity, she pushed her legs toward the end.

An eerily beautiful grove stretched before her. Lush green grass, delicately littered with tiny flowers created a welcoming carpet. A wall of stone hung over her head, hiding the small grove away from the sky. The sound of water echoed through the cave, filling the otherwise silent grove. 

Eyes wide in wonder, she strolled to the middle of the meadow.  An ancient tree sprawled at its center, its tangled canopy forming a large dome over most of the clearing. She brushed her fingertips along its rough brown bark. With an ominous creak, the tree shifted in a gust of spring breeze -  the cracks in the bark glowed under her fingers, illuminating the place in dim white light.

She gasped and took a step back. The bark darkened as she withdrew; a barely discernible violet light rushed underneath the little cracks and slowly lit up the dark leaves. 

“You are here,” Hope's voice bounced off the rocks, a breath of surprise with a happy ring. The spirit glimmered behind her, fuzzy and indistinct.

“Did I fall asleep?” Bookkeeper asked and rubbed her face. She still couldn’t discern dreams from reality at times.

“No.”

“How is it...how are you here?” she asked the spirit.

Hope slowly closed in on the ancient tree. “You walk both worlds in this place.” 

Bookkeeper carefully placed her book underneath the tree. Dalish stories would have to wait. “Is that even possible? What of all the demons wanting to cross?”

“I was the first. My ward weakened as this place changed, but grew strong once more.” Hope motioned to the tree base.

“But it is not your ward anymore?”

“No.”

Bookkeeper shot the spirit a frustrated look. “Who keeps the ward up, then?”

A cold voice cut into the conversation. “I do.” 

Bookkeeper turned on her heel as her hair prickled against her neck.

“Solas,” she breathed. He stood by the cavern mouth, watching both her and Hope with a hint of interest.

He nodded to the spirit and strode over to Bookkeeper. “You truly are a troublemaker. How did you find this place?”

Bookkeeper nervously swallowed and pointed to the cave mouth. Solas shook his head with an exasperated smile. “Of course. Your curiosity.”

“Is this your big secret? You knew about this place?” 

“I said I saw it in the Fade, did I not? This place is in both the waking world and the Fade.” He brought his eyes to her, a flicker of sorrow appearing for a moment. 

She touched the ancient tree and a gentle glow beneath its bark illuminated the meadow. Solas bowed his head and pressed his palm on the trunk. The tree’s dim glow changed to nearly blinding white. 

“Only certain magic can awaken these trees,” he replied, and covered her hand in his, entwining their fingers. “Very few people have the ability in this age.”

She stared at their hands, his thumb running over her skin. Her breath hitched. “Obviously, you are one of those people.”

“Obviously.” He chuckled, then quickly grew serious. “Rare gifts should be used wisely.”

“How about Dorian and Vivienne? Wouldn’t they be interested in a place like this?”

Solas plucked a leaf from the nearest branch, creamy purple reflecting on his pale skin. “They would see what most people do. Fear. Darkness. Dull and colorless, unable to look beyond their own preconceptions.” He trailed Bookkeeper’s exposed arm with the leaf, the light and playful touch completely at odds with  his melancholy. “Perhaps your memory loss opened your mind to the wonders of the Fade. Perhaps you were born different. I cannot say.”

She took a ragged breath and caught the leaf in between her fingers. “I don't see myself as any different from other people.”

“You are.” Solas stopped exploring of her skin and frowned. “Worryingly so.”

“Why? Are you afraid I’ll enchant you to love me? A wicked witch of the wilds?”

He laughed, sadness hidden underneath the sound. “Your power and skill grows with every visit to the Fade. I fear that others may see you as a threat. One that must be broken and tamed.” He sighed and let the leaf fall to the ground. “Or worse, one that must be used. Nothing more but a soulless weapon.”

She shook her head, fingers absentmindedly following the glowing trail he left on her. “ What if I simply pretend to be weaker than I am?”

“And if your skill could save someone from annihilation? Would you not use it?” Solas gently swept his palm over her arm and forced the magical trail away.

“I...you’re probably right.”

He brushed her cheek. “You must be vigilant, Bookkeeper. The greater your power, the greater your responsibility. You will find enemies you have never expected to have, and you will be misunderstood..” He glanced over to Hope. The spirit shimmered and disappeared in the distance. “Master your skill. Put it to good use.”

She frowned at her fingers, surrounded by cool mist, the magic reacting to the strange place in between two worlds. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“That is irrelevant.”

She fell silent for a while, then swept her arms in a circle and took a deep breath, spring air filling her lungs. The grove appeared untouched by life, silent and patiently waiting. For what, she couldn’t begin to guess.

“I thought the Veil stretched everywhere. Why is it different here?” Bookkeeper shook her head.

He shrugged. “I cannot say.”

“I thought you were the expert on the Fade,” she teased lightly and poked his  shoulder. 

Solas caught her finger in his palm and pulled her close. “I never claimed to know everything.”

She suppressed a grin. “Many would beg to differ.”

Solas laughed, and she rested her hand on his chest. He smelled of elfroot and an unfamiliar mix of herbs: bitter mixed with sweet and smoke. “You smell different today,” she mumbled into his chest, trying to ignore his warm hand sliding down her back.

“A herbal mixture, used to enter the Fade at will without the use of lyrium.” He slid his hand under her tunic.

She lifted her head. “You needed to fall asleep quickly?”

“I needed to travel quickly. The ward is not the only glyph guarding this grove.”

She bit her lip and glanced to the narrow entrance. “I triggered a rune when I entered. I didn’t feel anything.”

“I would be genuinely surprised if you did.”

“Why?”

“You would need a certain spell to uncover it first.” His fingertips stopped underneath her belt, pressed against her soft skin.

“We are here and we are alone. Teach me that certain spell,” she suggested with a mischievous smile.

Solas chuckled. “So you can poke around my little secrets?”

“Are they that terrible?” she asked. She brushed her fingers over his cheek, feeling the sharps features beneath her touch, and his fingers tensing under her clothes.

He tugged on her hand instead. “Let me show you the creek. There are better ways to enjoy our seclusion.” 

He beckoned her toward the sound of water. The spring splashed in playful droplets, and she felt the chill seep through her bones when they approached. The cavern opened over their heads, letting the moon shine through, and she glimpsed few bright stars above. The air buzzed with energy and dormant magic as she took a deep breath, fingers loosely entwined with his. 

“It’s a wonder no one found this place yet.”

Solas looked directly in her eyes before he spoke. “Please, do not mention it to anyone.”

Bookkeeper nodded and absentmindedly trailed her hand through the spray of freezing droplets. “If the Fade is so scary to many, I don’t see a reason to drag them here anyway.”

Solas wrapped his hand around her waist and pulled her close. “Good,” he murmured. A smooth motion of his hand summoned a blazing rune close to them; the little area flooded with sudden warmth. She smiled and fluttered her thumb over his lower lip, and grinned when he gently caught the finger between his teeth.


	16. Chapter 16

Bookkeeper and Cole sat on a wall over the provisionary infirmary, and watched the constant murmur of life. She leaned toward the spirit boy and pointed at one of the people walking underneath them. 

“How about that lady? She looks sad,” Bookkeeper asked. The woman in question walked with hunched shoulders; her eyes were blotched and swollen and she jumped at any sudden clanking sound behind her. 

Cole nodded silently. “Scared, lonely, in pain. Cold men in cold armor, with eyes blue as lyrium.”

“Can you help her?” she asked, an odd tingle in her stomach. She had refused Cole’s help, but sat with him on the cold stone while he healed other people’s hurts. 

With barely a sound, Cole approached the woman walking around the surgeon tents and quietly spoke to her. She appeared confused; after a moment, she walked away, expression almost blank, but her gait was different. Less burdened. Cole reappeared next to Bookkeeper with a gentle smile.

It felt like a lifetime ago, when she’d been unnerved by Cole’s presence, unsure what to make of him. That feeling was long gone - he was still very human, unlike spirits in their natural state. Talking to a wispy, cloudy being like Hope certainly made her feel more sure about Cole.

Bookkeeper smiled and pointed at a young girl with red eyes. “That girl?”

“Hay tickles, itches, especially in spring. It makes her sneeze. I don’t think I can help her.” Cole shuffled his feet and frowned a little.

Bookkeeper chuckled. “Not unless you set the barn on fire.”

“That would hurt more people.”

She sighed. “I didn’t actually mean you should do it. It was a joke.”

The boy scratched his arm and stood up. “I can help you too.”

Bookkeeper smiled. “I know. But if you make my worry go away, I will forget what I need to remember.”

He seemed confused. “But you’re afraid to remember.”

“Yes, but who am I without my memories? It feels like I didn’tt exist before. It feels…”

“...empty,” he sighed.

He looked so lost sometimes. She wondered whether Hope would act the same; but then, Hope was much older than the spirit standing in front of her. She and Cole walked across the courtyard, weaving through the flurry of preparations for Halamshiral. Her hart already stood saddled in all its glory, grazing peacefully on the remnants of last year’s grass.

Cole stopped by the tavern. As with Hope, his gaze pierced her entire being, not stopping at the eyes. “You aren’t like Varric. He calls me Kid, hopes for me to be more like him. But you don’t mind..” He tugged on the dagger at his belt. “Hope, love, warmth. You’re afraid of how he will react when your memories come back, but Hope won’t let you fall.  And I won’t either.” 

Bookkeeper frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but Cole was already gone. A shiver ran down her spine. She dashed off to her room to get her packed belongings, trying not to think about what Cole saw in her.

She retrieved the small linen sack from her garden room and went back to the courtyard to tie it on the hart’s saddle. She patted the trusty animal and fished out a wilting carrot in her pocket.  He crunched it down with one snap of his jaw, immediately nuzzling her side for more.

“Ready for the parade?” She turned to see Varric, hands akimbo, a nervous smile on his lips. He seemed to loathe the idea of riding anything taller than him, and since a pony couldn’t keep up with  draught horses and harts, he was one of the people riding in a carriage. 

With a sigh, he glanced over to the tavern window where Cole sometimes lurked. “I wish they’d listened to me. He says...weird shit now.” 

She followed his intent look. “He’s happy as he is, Varric.”

Varric scowled. “He’s a kid.” 

“Is he, Master Tethras?” Solas cut in as he approached, dressed in his usual clothes, with a thick wolf pelt over his shoulder for warmth. He stole a short glance at Bookkeeper, and the corners of his mouth twitched as he patted his left pocket.

Varric shot her an intrigued look before he turned to Solas. “He was fine before.”

“Let’s just agree to disagree?” Bookkeeper suggested quietly and brushed Pride over his neck. Solas and Varric both rounded on her, and she scowled back. “I could just fetch Cole and make you two forget.”

Varric shook his head and trailed off to the nearest carriage. 

“He’ll get used to it,” she mumbled as she watched the disappointed dwarf walk away.

Solas touched her shoulder. “And you? Would you change your nature if you could?” He seemed calm, but she saw the storm still raging behind the stone-cold curtain. 

“I don’t really know,” she mused. “Not at the moment, no. But circumstances change, and who am I to foretell the future?” 

He let out a long breath and took a step away from her; she didn’t realize how close they stood to each other until the wind cooled her cheeks again. She quickly glanced around and noticed Varric, a suspiciously wide grin pronouncing the crow’s feet around his eyes.

 

\---

They reached the Winter Palace one night before the ball. Tired and soaking from recent rains, most of the group kept silent. Bookkeeper rubbed her hands and glowered at her tunic as a trickle of cold water ran down her skin. The caravan had big sheets meant for cover, but the torrential spring shower had caught them by complete surprise.

Cullen and Solas looked particularly pitiful with their large furs hanging sadly over them. They dripped water as they rode, looking like they had long-dead carcasses on their shoulders. Both of the men visibly gritted their teeth, although Solas seemed more comfortable. She was sure he had a spell keeping him warm, unlike the shivering commander.

After a short introduction by lady Montilyet, the palace guards directed them toward a lower guest wing. Several luggage-laden carriages arrived behind them, surrounded by elven servants quietly and efficiently working in the failing light, seemingly unaffected by the earlier rain.

Bookkeeper closed her eyes and listened to the brittle sound of shoed hooves on the tiled courtyard. She wondered how often the mason repaired the yard, replacing chipped tiles and broken marble, cracked under the hooves of heavy animals bearing guests.

Anthony reined his pinto alongside her and leaned close, so only she could hear what he said. “Keep your eyes peeled. Anything you find out of order, report to me. There’s a meeting in my suite once you settle in.”

She nodded and dismounted, nearly slipping on the damp marble underneath. She let a young, dark-skinned elven boy take the hart once she untied her sack and slowly followed the main group. She gaped at all the golden frescos and large paintings adorning the ornate walls, most of them depicting parts of the Chant. Plush blue carpet lay heavy and wet under her feet without a doubt cleaned before the ball by exhausted servants, even if they bloodied their knuckles.

With a slight frown, she stopped outside a simple room with two narrow beds. Another elf, an old, silver-haired woman, stood by the door and motioned her inside.

The room was small compared to most of the guest rooms littering the hallway left and right, obviously meant for higher ranking servants. She dropped her bag on the floor near a modest fireplace and poked the logs. Warm sparks lit the room anew. Shivering from her wet clothes, she strolled over to the door and closed it with a small nod to the old elven woman. 

There were two beds in the room, which meant someone else would come soon, and she quickly slipped out of the soaking linen and changed into a dry, lavender-coloured cotton tunic. Hugging it tightly, she slouched next to the fire and used her fingertips to untangle her braid and let her hair dry in the warmth.

There was a light knock on the door and she turned to greet the guest, only to let out a quick, surprised laugh.

“And you were worried about the rumours,” she said to the tall figure filling the doorway.

Solas stepped inside and closed the door. “I can hardly dispute the Empress’s orders.”

“I’ll let you change into dry things, then.” She stood and threw a large hood over her freshly knotted braid. He chuckled, his own clothes only slightly damp.

“Or you could stay,” he suggested with a lopsided smile, a mischievous spark flickering in his gaze. She stopped in her tracks. She rarely saw him relaxed like this, even when they talked alone underneath the Skyhold library.

“You are aware that right now, Varric is furiously scribbling notes for a new version of Swords and Shields. Books and Fade, probably.”

Solas’s eyes glittered in the orange flames. “As entertaining as the thought is, I’d rather he did not.”

“I am pretty sure Hawke had similar sentiments.” She grinned to mask a bout of shyness as he tugged on his shirt. “Sadly, Trevelyan wanted to speak to me. I’ll see you later.”

She darted out of the room with the sound of Solas’s quiet laughter, and felt her cheeks regain a proper colour. She weaved through the busy hallway with her eyes glued to the velvet carpet, dodging various expensively dressed nobles and overburdened servants. The Inquisitor’s suite was halfway down the hall, and she took a quick breath before knocking on the beautifully carved white door. No matter how polite Anthony seemed, she still felt a pang of anxiety around him.

“Come in,” said a deep voice. Most of the Inquisitor’s companions sat around a ridiculously tiny tea table, sipping hot tea from impossibly small cups. Varric in particular seemed to disdain the delicate porcelain and scoffed loudly every time he picked it up, earning a reproving glare from Josephine.

“Solas?” Anthony asked, voice even. 

“Changing into dry clothes.”

“I hear you are sharing a room,” Cassandra said, one brow slightly arched. Apparently, some rumours had yet to reach her.

Bookkeeper shrugged. “The rooms were assigned by the Palace staff. I only wonder why isn’t he with the rest of you.”

“Chuckle’s an elf, Pup.” Varric innocently sipped at his tea. “But you don’t seem too unhappy about the sleeping arrangements.” 

She glared at him. Solas entered the room after a polite knock, oblivious to Varric’s teasing.

“Isn’t that true, Chuckles?” Varric grinned and winked at Bookkeeper, though his words were for Solas. Her cheeks lit aflame again, and Varric gave a satisfied chuckle. 

Solas glimpsed her colour. “What is, Master Tethras?”

“Varric,” Bookkeeper gritted a warning through her teeth and glowered at the cursed dwarf.

Varric laughed heartily. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”  

Cassandra appeared momentarily confused, but Bookkeeper saw realization sink in at the same time her eyes darted from Bookkeeper to Solas standing by her side. Josephine pretended not to be in the room and continued drinking her honey-sweetened tea, and Leliana, Cullen and Trevelyan exchanged poorly concealed smiles.

Bookkeeper ran her palms over her face and decided to ignore them all. She faced Trevelyan. “You called, my lord?”

Anthony gestured at an unoccupied chair. “I did. I want to go over the details of our mission again. Solas, Bookkeeper, you in particular will be less visible than the rest of us, considered servants by the nobility.”

She sank in the overly pillowed seat and listened to Anthony carefully recounting what each of the companions would do tomorrow. At some point, he directed his speech to her alone, explaining that as an official Inquisition archivist she could obtain  entry to the Palace library, unlike  the others. He’d try to secure permission before the grand ball started, giving them an additional option to search for possible traces of treason or an assassin. 

“I know you cannot bring your staff with you,” he added. “But I have seen several of your training sessions, and I know you are capable enough without it.”

“You don’t want me to openly use magic in a palace full of Orlesian nobility, do you?” she asked with a hint of doubt. The entire place swarmed with chevaliers.

Anthony shook his head and beckoned Solas closer. “No, I don’t, unless it’s completely necessary. But both of you know subtler spells. Slow any intruders down and alert me - or the guards, if you cannot reach me in time. Understood?”

Both mages noded and Anthony turned to Leliana. “If you would ask Vivienne to my suite once she settles in, I’d appreciate it. She needs to be briefed as well. Where did she go?”

“She took a detour to Lydes, to visit one of her...allies. She should arrive in a matter of hours.”

“I hope it’s worth it.” Trevelyan smiled wryly. “Now let’s finish these silly little cakes. They taste delicious. As does the tea.” He brought the cup up, then hesitated. “Remind me to secure some for the Inquisition. We might as well sweeten our bitter ordeal a little.”

Bookkeeper watched the casual conversation flow. Everyone else spent the evening in friendly chatter over the Inquisition perils and exchanged some stories from their pasts.  For her part, Bookkeeper was happy to mostly listen. 

Cassandra looked her way, overflowing with curiosity after Varric winked and toasted Bookkeeper with an imaginary ale, and Bookkeeper tried to disappear among the fluffy pillows around her. Solas ignored the tea, but she’d swear he ate most of the sweets placed on the table in between them. How such a lean figure could contain a whole dozen cupcakes, she couldn’t start to guess.

Feeling her mind waver, Bookkeeper sighed. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go prepare for the night.” She waved them all good night. 

Before she fully closed the door, Varric’s voice carried to her. “And Bookkeeper?”

“Yes?” 

“Take notes. I’ll need them later.” His grin spoke volumes and she instantly regretted her return. She heard his hearty laugh carry down the hall long after she promptly shut the ornate door behind her.


	17. Chapter 17

Bookkeeper pulled on her livery and tucked a small letter in the pocket underneath. She found three such letters so far, all of them possible blackmail material. She had been at the Winter Palace only mere hours and already disliked all the intrigue and machinations. 

She steadied her shaking hand and glanced over the balustrade of the Grand Library. Despite having official permission to enter the room, she still felt nervous in the eerily silent hall, surrounded by thousands of books neatly stocked in tall, narrow shelves. 

She’d brush her fingers over the backs of the books, looking for any disturbance in their order. And there were plenty of little misplacements. Some on purpose, containing dirty letters and cryptic messages about elven servants. She found one such book, ran her fingers through the pages, and snatched yet another note about an affair at the court. 

Her heart skipped a beat when the ballroom bell rang and she hurriedly placed the tome back in its place. Slowly, Bookkeeper walked out of the Grand Library and locked the door behind her. A few steps ahead of her, Trevelyan strolled through the vestibule; she caught up with him and they headed toward the ballroom in barely audible conversation.

“Four letters of no real consequence and one odd note about elven servants,” she whispered, and carefully placed the folded papers in his palm. Anthony muttered his thanks and gracefully entered the ballroom on the second bell. Bookkeeper glimpsed the richly embroidered gown of Duchess Florianne before the door shut and turned to search the gardens instead; one of the letters promised a secret meeting right there.

Bookkeeper’s hair prickled against her neck when she entered the library corridor. The icy blue stare of an armored chevalier followed her - he didn’t falter when she caught his gaze, sparing a quick glance at his gleaming blade. He didn’t have  the ceremonial armour and weapons of the rest of the chevaliers. Promptly, she turned and fixed her gaze on Solas standing near a massive window overlooking the garden. His expression was neutral, but she could see him tense when he glimpsed the sword. Chevalier or not, weapons were not allowed at the grand ball.

She reached him and smiled. “Enjoying yourself?”

He nodded. “The food and drink are excellent.” 

Bookkeeper chuckled at his slightly flushed cheeks. He seemed positively tipsy. It didn’t take much to realize that despite Anthony’s expectations, Solas wasn’t considered a servant at all - at least, not by the other servants. The Inquisition livery certainly stood out.

“I can’t turn back without alerting the chevalier.”

Solas didn’t glance around as she did, and instead brought his hand to her cheek and nodded in silent understanding. “Naturally.”

She relished the little gesture, despite knowing he did it to make them look less suspicious. Bookkeeper let out a quiet laugh. “The chevalier must think I’m paid company by now. Mingling with two men.”

Solas’s smile carried a sharp edge. “Tread carefully, Bookkeeper. The Game is deadly. You don’t want to lose your head.”

With a gentle smile, Bookkeeper bowed her head and left for the central garden. Eyes glued to the ground to appear more subservient, she found her way to a small archway. Many of the noble pairs shared intimate conversations, and two groups of men discussed the warring mages and templars a bit too loudly. 

She bit her cheek when she noticed a fresh trail of blood underneath their boots. The droplets were hard to spot, but shone under the lit torches like little beads. She followed the trail to a fountain and stopped by a carpet of ivy. 

Trevelyan was attending his courtly duties, and she couldn’t possibly climb up the trellis in front of half of the nobility. With a careful squint, she realized the trail led back to the Grand Library.

Heart racing, she weaved her way back through the vestibule and into the library. Silence hung heavily over her head as she crept across the spacious room. Another book stuck out from the shelf, and she pulled out three sheets of fine paper: detailed information on movements of a hired mercenary band within the Winter Palace. 

The blood trail dripped down the broad stairs in front of her. Underneath the balustrade, an elven girl stopped running and stared at her, wide-eyed. Bookkeeper frowned. Was that the person who hid the letters?

The servant muffled a gasp the same moment a leather glove curled over Bookkeeper’s mouth. Bookkeeper kicked, twisting and turning, and choked when the assailant squeezed hard. Mind rattled from the pain, she bit as hard as she could. The man hissed a curse. A cold touch of steel on the back of her neck forced her to freeze.

A rough whisper carried through the library. “Don’t be a problem and you’ll live to see the end of this charade.” 

A leather-clad man, scruffy and without a crest, pulled on her arm and ordered her to follow. “Nosy little bitch,” he mumbled when she eyed the blood trail leading to one of the locked side rooms. Silently, she prayed the elven girl would call for help. But the soldier dragged her across the upper library, through a small room, and into a dusty narrow hallway descending two stories down. 

They emerged at the side of the main garden and she surveyed her surroundings. The night was dark and the moon hid beneath rain-heavy clouds. Not a single soul strolled by...but there was an open gate. A chance.

Bookkeeper pulled her arm out of his grasp and darted. 

Three pairs of armoured feet pounded on the damp grass as she ran. She risked a quick glance behind her - the scruffy mercenary was fastest and rushed after her; two other men emerged from under the archways. She pushed her feet into a burning tempo and looked for the gate, but a wall of steel jumped right in front of her.

The crash blinded her. She fell to all fours and shook her head. Silverite boots stood firmly planted near her hands, and she slowly sized up the massive figure.

“The Inquisition is more cunning than I expected,” a refined voice scoffed. “An archivist. Clever.”

A hand stretched over her. “The documents, please.” 

“She’s got ‘em,” one of the voices behind her growled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she groaned and rubbed her temple. The voice...sounded familiar. 

“Do not mistake me for a fool, girl. The documents.” The silverite fingers wiggled in front of her face and she leaned back on her heels. Wincing, she quietly fished the folded papers out of her pocket and placed it in the gauntlet. The moment she met the man’s gaze, she let out a surprised gasp.

“Grand Duke Gaspard!” 

A second survey of the garden revealed a skillfully hidden unit of fully armoured chevaliers, waiting for his command; on the opposite side, mercenaries hauled crates filled with weapons. Gaspard wore no mask or crest, and his armour featured a skillfully shaped lion head on the breastplate, but nothing more.

He calmly watched her assess the situation. Bookkeeper swallowed. She knew too much now. And he knew she’d report what she saw the moment she had a chance, no matter what she’d promised him at swordpoint.

“Fuck,” she mumbled miserably and thought of Solas’s parting words. Don’t lose your head in the Game. “Any chance I can walk out of this in one piece?” she asked, forcing a shaky smile.

The Grand Duke let out a hearty laugh and spoke over his shoulder with determined hardness. “Take the girl somewhere far away...but leave her unharmed. Her information will be useless in a matter of days.” He watched the blue-eyed chevalier. “ I don’t need the Inquisition meddling in my business.”

“What if she fights?” She quickly dismissed the mist gathering around her wrists. Gaspard spotted her move and thoughtfully narrowed his eyes.

“Get a templar instead.” When the chevalier hesitated, staring at Bookkeeper, Gaspard frowned. “Go.”

“Useless,” he muttered when the man departed. Gaspard turned to her and motioned deeper in the garden. “Let’s take a stroll, shall we?”

Unsure on her feet, head still spinning from her head-on collision with his breastplate, she followed the Grand Duke around the quiet garden. 

“A beautiful night, isn’t it?” he asked casually. Bookkeeper shot him a disbelieving look. He ignored it and continued. “I suggest you keep your tongue tied. Unless you would like to lose it, of course.” His fingers brushed over the pommel of his sword.

“Silent as a grave, Your Grace,” she mumbled.

“Excellent. I will keep my side of the bargain as long as you keep yours.” Gaspard turned on his heel when he heard the chevalier returning  with a silver-haired templar in tow. 

 

The two men unceremoniously threw her on a bony mare, and wrapped in a nondescript hooded cloak to cover her livery. They tied her horse to a colossal warsteed and without further words bid the mounts into a relaxed trot, heading away from the palace.

“Lydes?” the blue-eyed chevalier asked.

“Lake Celestine.” The templar motioned westward. “Keep close to the Imperial Highway.” 

She felt an unknown aura hum around them and took few strained breaths; it was as if she was trying to breath underwater. An odd emptiness filled her, making every sound loud and sharp, piercing her already raw mind. She pressed her hand to her tight chest and tried to shake the strange feeling away. It eased when the templar noticed her tremble, but didn’t disappear. She nearly fell off the mare as her strength waned, and realized that any attempt to reach Hope would be pointless. 

The templar snarled at her. “Don’t try, mage.” 

Bookkeeper slumped against the scrawny horse. Only a few daring crickets and birds squawked on occasion, disturbed by their movement. A damp gust of air announced drizzle ahead. She pulled the oversized hood far over her face, but as soon as the hooves splashed in shallow puddles, she realized it was a useless gesture.

They spotted lights in the distance and took a turn into the woods instead, avoiding the settlement in a wide circle. Unwilling to risk the warsteed, the chevalier slowed down into a walk, carefully picking the track over gnarly roots and fallen branches. 

Bookkeeper started to nod off by the time the men pulled the mounts to a halt. Surrounded by thick woods, muddy water shimmered in the morning sun ahead of them. The vast Lake Celestine stretched across a snug valley. “There.” The templar pointed across the lake, further to the west. A hunting cabin cowered among the trees, barely visible to the naked eye. 

Bookkeeper stared, thoughts racing. Would they simply lock her inside, delaying her return? Would they murder her and sink the pieces in the lake, despite Gaspard’s orders? 

An iron keyring flew over her head into the chevalier’s palm, followed by a leather pouch the opposite way. 

The templar bared his teeth in a mocking smile. An effortless gesture, and all the air escaped her lungs. She grasped the horse’s mane, anxiously fighting for breath which would not come. For once, unconsciousness was welcomed change.

 

Bookkeeper awoke to an omnipresent, quiet hum. A shattering headache responded to her movement, and she quickly pressed her palms to her temples, tasting the sweet air around her.

They hadn’t killed her. 

She peeled her eyes open. Dying embers granted the space a dull orange colour, bouncing off unkempt furniture. She smelled the stiff air of a long-forgotten building, mixing with the earthy dampness of the woods. A thick layer of dust blanketed the room and two pairs of boots had left a trail near her.

A thin layer of light shone through the dust coating the floor. She touched it with her bare hand and let out a gasp as all the sounds became louder and sharper around her: the hum became a roar, the embers cracked loudly, the rain on the outside splashed in giant drops. 

Nullifying field. Bookkeeper had never seen one before, although she’d heard the Inquisition templars talk about practising it. She could only guess how powerful the templar was, performing such a technique by himself. And clever, preventing her from entering the Fade within her dreams while she was unconscious.

Bookkeeper crawled away from the field and rested her head on the dirty floor. She tried to summon a small glyph. It flickered and died - yet her hands shook with exhaustion. She stood up. No magic then, not for a while. 

The windows were boarded shut and rusty nails protruded through the wood. The door had been barred from the outside - she didn’t expect less. With a sigh, she crouched in front of the dying fire and poked it around with a thick iron, sparkling a weak flame among the burnt logs. 

A smile spilled over her face as she considered the fire iron. One of the window boards was held by only a few nails; it gave in after a few good swings with an earsplitting crack. She poked her head out of the window. The sun was still relatively high, although hidden beneath a grey duvet of clouds.

With a huff, she swung over the windowsill and landed outside the cabin, dead leaves crunching underneath her boots. After a short mental battle, she decided to follow the Imperial Highway directly back to Halamshiral. They’d expect her to stop by Verchiel, and had mentioned Lydes before. Recent hoofprints led her out of the thick forest with little difficulty, and she felt strength returning as she left the vicinity of the nullifying field. In about an hour, she reached the sandstone bricks of the highway.

Don’t lose your head… 

She let out a short, bitter cackle and tried to summon fire to warm herself up. The glyph dimly flickered and disappeared again; her connection to the Fade was still hanging by a thread. She huddled into the oversized cloak and hid her hands inside her livery instead, walking briskly across the smooth, white stone. 

Suddenly, she heard a sharp clap of hooves on the the sandstone behind her. 

“Leaving so soon?” The chevalier smirked and slid off the mount.

Bookkeeper shut her eyes and uttered a silent prayer to anyone willing to listen. In a single fluid motion, she summoned a simple glyph near his silverite boots. A moment of silence stretched to infinity - and then, with an outraged growl, the massive man suddenly started after her. Her ward failed.

Panicked, Bookkeeper darted into the meadow. Her lungs burned and she sprinted for the treeline - only to be jerked back by her cloak.

“Oh no, little one. Not that quick,” the chevalier growled as she coughed and squirmed, trying to pry her fingers under the choking fabric. An armoured glove clenched around her throat and another one delivered a loud slap on her temple.

Desperate now, she spat in his face.  His face twisted, and he squeezed harder. Throat crushed tight and no magic at hand, Bookkeeper sagged. He brought her face close to his and grinned.

“Un-hh...unharmed,” she forced out a hoarse whisper, Gaspard’s words in mind. 

The chevalier sniggered. “You tried to run. Unfortunate.” His other hand slid under her cloak. “Besides, some fun is in order. Do this, do that. Who’s gonna miss a dirty little whore like you?”

Her heart picked up a wild tempo despite her failing breath. “Hh...Hope…” Her vision darkened, the Fade out of reach.

The chevalier brought her to his ear. “What?”

With all her remaining power, she desperately gasped: “Hope.”

Every little sound became a distant echo and her vision hazed through a layer of ivory. Illuminated in pure white energy, the chevalier dropped her with a startled shout. Bookkeeper watched, as though from a great distance, as the energy formed itself into spell after spell, battering the chevalier like a string puppet. She wanted to scream, to stop, but her body was frozen. It seemed to go on forever...until there was a sickening crack, and he collapsed to the ground. 

A trickle of her own blood trailed over her temple: his fingers still held a handful of her torn hair. She floated over, unfeeling and half-conscious. Her skin a net of alabaster veins, Bookkeeper illuminated the area, body drowning in a thick mist. Forcing her lips apart felt like lifting a fortress from its foundations. 

“Hope…” she breathed and felt the unfamiliar pang in her body again. The spirit flowed in her veins, a part of her own mind.

And then, in an instant, Bookkeeper’s memory opened.

She choked on tears. Blinding images. Broken bones. Cruel eyes hidden beneath dark masks. Confusion. Suffocating fear, swallowing her, locking her limbs in place. Faces. Oh, Maker, the faces.

“You must endure,” the otherworldly voice whispered through her own lips. Commanding her feet, Hope marched them alongside the Imperial Highway, leaving the unconscious chevalier behind and scattering a traveling family at the sight of them.

Hope stopped when a group in familiar livery emerged on the road, mounts rushing westward. Bookkeeper felt the spirit waver a little, a sting of worry running through her mind. Unable to decipher the shouts, she stood rooted in the grass, glowing in the cloudy night like a human torch. She shifted between bright blaze and dying flickers, mind reeling from her memories and Hope trying to keep her standing.

Cassandra jumped down from her horse and pointed her sword at Bookkeeper. “Release her, demon.”

A thrum vibrated within her chest as her lips formed a response. “I cannot.” Hope fixed her gaze on Solas, who stood just behind Cassandra. “She called. I helped.” When Solas nodded, the spirit sighed. “She remembered.” 

Solas took a step forward, ignoring the pale faces behind him. Smoothly, he summoned an intricate glyph on the ground. “She is safe with us.” 

Bookkeeper felt the spirit hesitate. Solas stood still, eyes soft, fingers loosely wrapped around his staff. Bookkeeper whimpered when his eyes met hers through the spirit’s glow.

She tried to halt her advance, but Hope pushed her legs forward. The moment Bookkeeper's toes touched the ward, the spirit returned to the Fade. Free, she slumped to her knees and let out a faint wail. 

A blue light glimmered in Solas’s palms as he let her fall into a dreamless sleep. Through the smothering darkness, Varric’s voice carried to her. 

“Shit, Chuckles. I’m gonna need to write another book.”


	18. Chapter 18

Bookkeeper curled under the luminous canopy of Hope’s tree, staring at a single, bright dandelion. She had brought it to life many hours ago, and kept her eyes glued to it ever since, tears slowly trailing down her cheeks as the flower changed from a tiny sprout into a full, sun-touched blossom. 

The Fade soundlessly twisted and changed as her thoughts reeled from one corner of her mind to another. Only the gnarly tree and its purple glow remained steady.

With a flick of her fingers, she bid the dandelion to mature. Puffy seeds surrounded its stalk, and she leaned back against the purple-veined bark. Alone, Bookkeeper savoured the deafening silence of her dream. Hope’s tree seemingly floated in space, distant stars dimly flickered all around; the ominous shadow of ever-present Black City stretched high in the horizon, never too close and never too far.

It didn’t take long before a tall shadow appeared on the edges of her refuge. 

“Go away,” she groaned and wiped a stray teardrop away from her cheek. 

Met with only soft steps heading her way, she pushed her palms against her ears and firmly wished the figure away. The steps circled back to her, undisturbed by her disapproval. Bookkeeper opened her eyes. A barely discernible smile tugged on her lips. Solas walked barefoot even in the Fade.

“It’s rude to trespass into someone else’s dreams,” she snapped at him and pulled her knees closer to her chest.

Solas knelt in front of her, carefully avoiding the single spring blossom. Bookkeeper stared at his wrists, avoiding his eyes. If he touched her, or spoke to her, she’d shatter into a thousand little pieces. But he remained unmoving and silent.

Bookkeeper blew on the dandelion’s white, pillowy seeds. They scattered, sticking to their clothes and the grass. Wherever a seed landed, the grass flickered to a lush green, then  back to ash grey. 

Her mind buzzed with recollections of her past; since ever Hope became one with her, and the spirit’s knowledge briefly became hers. Like a key to a lock, the spirit opened a dam of rushing memories.

“My daughter loved dandelions,” she whispered. “She called them little suns on the ground. She’d run through the fields, laughing at her little brother’s sneezes.” 

Bookkeeper summoned a shy, white-petaled blossom next to the spent dandelion. “I always tried to make her like daisies. ‘They’re mommy’s favourite’, I’d say. ‘No sneezing involved.’ She couldn’t care less.”

Solas moved to her side and rested his back against the sprawling tree. Swallowing the lump that formed in her throat, Bookkeeper continued her hoarse whisper. Even in dreams, her throat burned sore.

“They’d all play together, pretending to be in another world. My husband…” Her voice trailed off. She pressed her hand hard against her chest. “Suleiman tried to make them play more sensibly. I always let their fantasy run wild.” 

She moved her hand and brought up an image of an unkempt playground surrounding the tree, the daisy a lone point of colour amidst the dust. “He’d say they needed to be ready for the real world. Then he’d bring a single white rose to placate me. And I always fell for it, letting him have his way.” 

She let out a short, bitter chuckle. “He’d grow this big, fluffy beard and laugh at the reactions he got from people around. They thought he looked dangerous. I found it endearing.” She closed her eyes and recalled the little wrinkle between dark brows.

She paused and grimaced. Like Suleiman, Solas frowned whenever he was focused. Her heart tore apart whenever she thought of the man sitting by her side. Unknowingly, in the months that had passed, she’d given her heart away. Yet her grief now bled new and raw. The Fade reacted, swirling around the tree in a nearly liquid shape, darkness gaping all around, dissolving everything but Hope’s tree. 

“It’s all gone,” she rasped. “The silly beard, the laughter, the eyes full of curiosity, the baby giggles.” Bookkeeper waved her fingers in the air, scattering the crumbled dandelion ashes around. “Just like that. Dead.” 

She leaned against the bark and closed her eyes, her voice failing, a glimmer of fresh tears trailing down her pale face. She heard Solas pick up a fallen branch and pull it through his fingers. At first, she waited for him to say something. Anything. But as the stillness stretched, she grew grateful for it.

“I’ve been trying to remember every little detail,” Bookkeeper finally continued. “So many things don’t even start making sense.” 

“So much life wasted. So much happiness extinguished just because someone thought we don’t deserve to live.” She bit her cheek from inside; the taste of blood filled her mouth. 

“Someone decided we didn’t belong. That the world he imagined should be different. Without people like me, or my children.” Nails left another set of bloody marks in her skin as she dug her fingers deep in her arms. 

She opened her eyes and glanced at Solas. His fingers curled tightly around the glowing wood, posture stiff and tense. 

“I don’t know what happened, really. My mind doesn’t allow me to see it to the bitter end. But I have flashes of recollection. Pain.” She stopped abruptly and curled up in a tight ball, hugging her knees. “I passed out when the neighbour’s house lit ablaze with the entire family still inside. It tore off part of our apartment. My kids were so silent in their room. God knows. They might’ve been...they probably were…” She broke down, voice lost. Forcing her lips to move, she continued in a barely audible breath. “The next time I awoke, the Chantry found me in the ruins of the Temple. Without a family, without a past.” 

She furiously wiped the tears away from her face. “It was probably better that way. I could’ve been happy. I made a new life. I made friends. I fell in-” She shot Solas a panicked look. “But it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters.”

The silence stretched as Solas watched the nothingness ahead of him. She wasn’t sure he’d heard her slip. For a moment, she wasn’t sure it was truly him; with her emotions in chaos, a demon could have found an easy way to tempt her, listening to her pouring her heart out.

Whether it really was him or a demon in disguise, Solas looked unhappy. And, he drew a white rose from the nothingness of the Fade, and pressed it into her shaking palm. “You can still be happy... Clementine.”

She dropped the flower as if it was a poisonous snake. “Don't do this to me.” 

But she couldn’t stop staring at the mesmerizing blossom. Images of dark, kind eyes flashed through her mind along with Solas’s grey. Pictures of hidden smiles and little gestures shared throughout the day. 

A cup of freshly brewed coffee next to her bed in a cold morning. Giggles from underneath a blanket as the morning sun broke through the window. The feeling of her fingers brushing through soft curls of a beard. The roughness of unshaven cheeks pressed against her stomach. The hum of a deep voice as her ear rested on Suleiman’s heart. 

But there was also the gentle hand guiding her through her first glyph. Stolen touches as she placed books on Solas’s desk. The light brush of his fingers on her hair as she red. A tingle of magic in the air and against her skin.

Some lingering question yanked her from her memories; a rattling feeling of fear grew in her pocket of dream. Slowly, Bookkeeper focused on Solas’s face. Her real name. He knew her name without her ever mentioning it.

“How did you--”

Solas stepped toward her, magic swirling around his outstretched hand. To his surprise, the magic glided off her and dispersed. She’d unconsciously surrounded herself with another barrier.

She recognized the thwarted spell.  Wake, it whispered, trying to nudge her back into the waking world.  Away from this place, her only refuge.

Suddenly furious with Solas, she called upon the energy around her and stepped out from the tree’s shadow. “You have no idea, do you?” she screeched.  Her voice rose hysterically, and no longer sounded like her own. 

As the mist around her condensed, her heartbroken fury ran stronger, deeper, until  pitch black smoke fully surrounded her body. Her voice took on an inhuman timbre as the smoke began to coalesce into another humanoid outline. She glared at the man in front of her, fists clenching, vision clouded. “How dare you stand here, pitying me like a little child?”

Solas stood alone, a massive glowing staff by his side. Mind muddled and pulled apart, Bookkeeper glared at the figure. A beam of ice shot from her screaming mouth, narrowly missing Solas.

Some part of her struggled to wake, but torn between despair and fury, her thoughts didn’t obey. Everything felt inconsequential in comparison to her grief. Everything felt small. And so it became small. Wildly, Bookkeeper turned on her heels. There was only one target for her pain; another blast of ice raced toward Solas, trying to make him feel some of the terrible anguish inside her.

Solas stood motionless; a mere flick of his wrist deflected the ice as he stared at her; as he stared through her. Her mind reeled, recalling his little smile whenever she succeeded in something he taught her. Despair yanked her thoughts back, flooding her vision with crumbling walls and ghastly faces; her body froze in place, stiff as a statue.

Hope’s tree started to shrink; its leaves withered with her memories in the grasp of Despair. The Fade roared with the sound of airplane engines. Her vision blurred through a new flood of tears. She fell to her knees - and her body stood up again, nearly lost to her. A distant echo of panicked shouts pressed against the Veil.

Her eyes blindly searched the area, trying to locate Hope; suddenly she needed to harm, to pull everyone into the bleak abyss staring at her. And the spirit was the first, its constant nagging for a better future grinding her frayed nerves.

The demon roared within her. A smell of burning flesh spread across the Fade, as black smoke escaped from her skin. She brushed her eyes over her blackened arms. She felt the demon sprawl through her veins, muscles, and bones. Slowly gaining awareness of her actual body, her limbs flexed of their own accord, lifting her physical self bolt upright on a wooden bed.

Darkness churned around her, blinding and deafening. And then, a white speck glittered within the chaos. A single rose petal slowly swirled through the smoke-filled air.

She stopped her advance and followed the petal with her eyes. It landed by her feet. When she picked it up, it regained its shape: a beautiful, milky white rose formed in her hand. As the demon snarled at her disobedience, she slowly pulled the strings of her being away from its grip, clutching the rose as an anchor. Screeching, Despair materialized outside her. 

“No!” The skeletal shape shrieked as it unsuccessfully tried to re-enter her mind. “You are mine!” 

When it reared to strike, Bookkeeper only despondently shook her head. As before, she drew a thick, translucent barrier around the creature. Slowly, insensible to Despair’s struggles, it crushed the demon into ashes.

Silence settled over the Fade once more. The smoke dissipated. Hope’s tree glowed anew. 

Trembling, she finally looked back at Solas. He stood firmly in place, knuckles white around his staff. In front of him, she’d nearly become an abomination.  She had attacked him.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. The Fade steadied itself. An endless meadow stretched as far as she could see. Grey leaves crunched underneath her soles as she slowly strode toward Hope’s tree. The closer she drew, the brighter the tree appeared. A faint green started to spill through the grass. A sound of a cricket echoed from beyond the Veil. 

With a dim glimmer, Hope reappeared next to Solas. 

“So very sorry.” Bookkeeper sank to her knees in front of Solas and suppressed a loud sob. His features softened; he shifted his weight and the Fade cleared around them. Stars shone through the otherworldly air. Her skin prickled with dormant magic as his power seeped through the space.  Hope shifted into her human shape and knelt beside her, offering an ethereal hand. 

“The Fade is no place for grief.” Solas knelt next to Bookkeeper. A butterfly-light touch brushed a tear away from her cheek. “You need to face your sorrow in the waking world.” Gently, Solas cupped her face and bathed her in faint blue light. As her vision blurred, the last thing she saw was Solas and Hope, standing side-by-side.

 

She heard the crackle of burning logs before she fully awoke. A barely audible conversation stopped abruptly as she took a shaking breath. Her head pounded. Her wrists burned; she opened her eyes and saw two runes inscribed around her arms like glowing chains. Flickering dimly, they pulsed and slowly disappeared with every new blaze. 

A relieved voice cut through the small room. “Thank the Maker!” Cassandra approached her bed slowly, almost fearful. “For a moment, I thought you were surely possessed. You sat up straight, out of nowhere, and tried to walk away.” 

A blanket-covered shape moved on the floor near the fireplace. Solas pushed himself on his elbow and glanced at her before turning to Cassandra. “Sleepwalking is not uncommon, Seeker.”

When his grey eyes met Clementine’s, a small wrinkle formed between his brows. A memory of the same wrinkle nudged at her, and she bit her knuckles. A flood of memories ran wild as she curled up in the bed. 

Cassandra left with a muttered apology. Solas moved to her bed and cradled her in his lap, resting his back against the cold wall. His heart pounded under her ear; his hand lightly brushed against her hair. Silent and real, he was the anchor in the chaos taking over her mind. She feared her sleep, but inexorably, the exhaustion took over and pulled her back to the Fade.


	19. Chapter 19

Clementine awoke to an empty room. With a muffled yawn, she forced herself out of the covers and threw some logs into the dying fireplace. The embers came back to life and flooded the cold morning air of her chamber with welcome warmth.

She felt empty. Spent and tired in the most undesirable way. Her wrists burned. It would not take long for the skin to fully recover, leaving only pale marks behind - unlike the long white scar that stretched from her collarbone to her hip. 

Mechanically, she stripped out of her sweat-soaked garments and changed into a clean tunic after washing all the travel filth away. She rolled a mint leaf in her mouth and headed out, as ready for the day as she could be. 

The breeze caused her to shiver despite being late spring. The cherry tree in the garden had lost its blossoms days ago, and tiny leaves fluttered in the morning wind. Paper crinkled under her foot and she quickly glanced down at two notes pinned down by a rock in front of her door.

The first was a finely written message from Josephine, informing her that the Inquisitor wanted to meet as soon as she left her bedchamber.

Bookkeeper was scribbled on the other one, haphazardly wrapped around something that fell to the ground with a quiet thud. Her eyes brushed over the object and she froze, stunned.

“Is something the matter?” A woman’s deep voice carried over to her and snapped her out of her shock. She looked up at a lightly dressed woman, following her curiously with daunting golden eyes. 

“I-- I’m fine, thank you,” Clementine replied and snatched the black pouch from the ground. She backed in her room and collapsed on the bed.

Struggling for breath, she examined the rough handwriting attached to her lost pendant. It was uneven, mostly in print and large letters, and often scribbled over. The letter had a blueberry stain in one of the corners, and a splatter of what could only be ale in another. Only few lines were clear among the mess.

I found it.   
It’s yours, right?   
We’re fine?  
S.

Her fingers trembled when she clutched the black hemp fabric in her palm. She didn’t need to guess its contents anymore. Shaking, she hung the pendant around her neck and rested it on her chest.

There was still the issue of Josephine’s note.

 

Anthony chose his private quarters for the meeting, and Clementine nervously fidgeted at the edge of a beige sofa. Josephine’s note had contained a warning to be on her best behaviour. Trevelyan had returned from the Winter Palace only recently, without time for rest.

A tray of orange biscuits and a jar of a crystal clear water rested on an end table table next to her, but she didn’t touch any of it.

Anthony stopped pacing. “I’m not sure I fully understand,” he sighed wearily and brushed his fingers through the streaks of grey in his hair.

“Well, that makes two of us,” Clementine mumbled. She quickly added a “sorry” when his glare turned hostile.

“Clementine,” he said carefully, rolling her name on his tongue. “We are  here so my shouting doesn’t carry through all of Skyhold. But you’re making me want to scream across the damn Frostbacks.”

“Sorry,” she repeated, and glued her eyes to the pendant shape nesting under her tunic.

Anthony resumed his pacing. “As I understand, you come from a distant village, uncharted on the maps, somewhere around the coast near Par Vollen. Par Vollen,” he enunciated the last two words forcefully and she nodded. “Yet you were terrified at the sight of Iron Bull.”

She blinked. “We...were pretty isolated.” 

He let out an exasperated sigh. “Let’s just forget about your past for now, because frankly, you need to get better at lying.” He reached the sofa and snatched one of the orange flavoured biscuits before sitting down at the edge of his curtained bed. 

“The Inquisition was nothing but welcoming to you. We provided you with a refuge when you asked for it. We provided you with training for your talents even though you didn’t tell us you were a mage. You are a rather capable archivist. You have been a tremendous help at the Winter Palace and I can’t thank you enough for that.” 

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and froze her in place with his unnaturally light hazel eyes. His nostrils flared. “Yet in a single day, you strolled around Orlais possessed and killed the Emperor’s best chevalier. It took a lot more than explaining and sidestepping to soothe Gaspard’s anger.”

Anthony leaned back on his bed and shut his eyes, letting out a drawn breath. “Solas assures me you are no danger to anyone and that the possession saved your life. That it was entirely voluntary. Mysteriously, Cassandra agrees.” 

“I would’ve been dead if not for the spirit’s intervention. The chevalier...” she trailed off, remembering the flash of violent lust in the chevalier’s icy blue leer. “He wasn’t particularly nice.”

Anthony let out a sharp, dark laugh. “So I‘ve heard.”

Clementine absentmindedly touched her cheek. A dark blue stain covered half of her face, along with a slash from the impact of a metal glove. The surgeon had shaved her hair on one side, exposing one of her temples where the chevalier had ripped her hair. 

Anthony watched her carefully. “I didn’t think you were lying about the chevalier,” he said. “But it’s hard for me to trust you. You have lied and obscured much from the moment we were both thrown in jail.”

“My lord,” she said quietly, “I might have lied about where I came from, but I didn’t lie about anything else.”

Anthony folded his arms across his chest. “Truly?” 

“I didn’t know about my skills until shortly before you did.” She wrung her fingers together and let out a weary sigh. Anthony’s wary stance spoke volumes.

Clementine worried her lip and tried again. ”Magic is a very foreign concept to the...tribe...I come from. It’s always been shunned as a fairytale. Anything out of ordinary was said to be a miracle.” She winced at every stutter, trying not to weave in any lie. “In the place I come from, magic is a children’s tale.”

He weighed her words carefully. “Well, that took quite a turn,” he muttered. 

Clementine let out a sad chuckle. “That it did.”

For a moment, they sat in silence, each lost in thought. Trevelyan rubbed his eyes, pushing away  impending sleep. “Since the Inquisition helped instal the Grand Duke on the throne, he let your... mishap slide. I will rely on Solas’s expertise and Cassandra’s word. But remember, Clementine: I already gave you two chances. I will not forgive the third time.”

“Thank you, my lord.” 

She stood up to leave, feeling dismissed. Trevelyan caught her elbow and halted her hasty retreat. His sharp features softened, and his exhaustion suddenly seemed much more pronounced.

“Cassandra mentioned…” He let out a long breath, pinched his nose again, and started over. “There’s a Tranquil which can take over your duties for a while, if you need to...take some time.”

“I...would appreciate that. Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

He’d been mostly cold with her in the past. A glimpse of actual heart beneath the rugged surface was something new.

He crossed the room and rummaged through his desk for a moment, then pulled out a thin package covered in plain paper and decorated with a blue satin bow. He held it out with a lopsided smile.“I know you’re not an errand girl anymore, but I’d appreciate if you could give this to Cassandra.”

He handed the package to her, and she felt a book hidden underneath the wrapping. Despite her mood, she smiled at him. “Anything I should say?”

“Don’t tell her it was me.” His eyes gleamed with mischief she hadn’t seen since the fall of Haven.

“By your leave.” She curtsied and smiled at his dismissive grunt.

 

Cassandra was fully focused on her training session and only briefly glanced over with a nod as Bookkeeper placed the present on a hay bale - once the Seeker started to train, she was a force of nature.

Instead, Clementine clutched her newly found pendant, strolled into the main hall, and descended a flight of stairs. The underbelly of Skyhold was empty save a skittering rat that disappeared in the little library, and she quickly followed suit. It took a little fumbling to find the mechanism behind the moving shelf, and she disappeared in the damp cave mouth with a relieved sigh. A place where the Fade and the waking world joined together, guarded by ages-old wards. A place where she could truly be alone.

The ancient tree dimly flickered when she approached and brushed her fingers against the rough bark in a greeting. To her surprise, the book of Dalish myths still rested near the trunk from her last visit, and she picked it up. Clementine moved her fingers to summon a fire rune for warmth before curling on the ground, hidden from a plain sight in a small nook.

She placed her pendant on the book cover and examined it. It had been her anchor in a confusing new world. Now it was merely a trinket - but a precious one. 

With trembling fingers, she untied the soft string and spilled the contents on the book. A pair of miniature silver booties caught her attention first, and she squinted at the details engraved on them. A little pendant meant to be worn as a necklace, but tied to a painful memory she wanted to keep.

She sifted through the other contents. Half of an old seashell, the broken surface exposing the pattern inside to the world. She’d picked it on a beach during a family outing. A smooth turquoise stone, netted with dark veins. Once, she’d believed it to have healing properties and carried it around after her third miscarriage. A ring that still fit her finger, adorned with a tiny diamond flower.

She bit her lip, trying to keep the tears at bay. When Suleiman brought up the topic of wedding rings, she’d asked for a daisy tied around her finger. After her youngest child was born, she couldn’t wear it anymore. Gold caused her skin to blister. Unwilling to give the loop up, she’d placed it in her little pouch with the other items and worn it around her neck instead.

Clementine’s gaze fell on the blazing rune at her feet. No matter how hard she pinched herself, she never woke up. A bitter chuckle escaped her. This was no bad dream. It all felt too real: her blood, the sword that left a scar, and the madness that had overthrown her last night.

An intense glow flooded the cavern as the ancient tree lit up. Clementine grimaced. She’d forgotten that her entry would alert one person - the guardian of the grove. Soft steps soon announced her company. Solas crouched in front of her with a worried frown. 

“I’m fine,” she breathed before he could ask. “I just wanted to be alone.” He glanced down at the items in front of her. She pushed the turquoise around. “I carried it around like a guardian spell. Silly, isn’t it?”

He didn’t smile. “If you wish, I will leave.”

The unspoken challenge hung in the air. Clementine worried her lip. First, she’d poured her heart out to him; then, she’d attacked him. If anyone was to blame for his sudden distance, it was only her. 

She ran her finger along the seashell, avoiding eye contact. “I’m sorry. I completely forgot about the trigger rune. I didn’t intend to draw you out here.”

Solas stood up. “As you wish,” he said, inscrutable as always.

Her heart skipped a beat when his silhouette passed the tree. He was nearly out of the grove when her voice betrayed her.

“Solas.” Clearly, she still had some madness left deep inside. “Don’t go.”

He stopped with his back turned to her. As much as she fought her own feeling of betrayal for not grieving enough, she didn’t want to lose Solas either. She’d regained her memory, only to realize she had lost everything but her existence. The only thing left was her life at Skyhold. Him.

“It is not wise,” Solas said without turning around. 

A lump formed in her throat. “Love is never wise.” 

His shoulders tensed. “Take care with your words.”

She shut her eyes and rested her head against the damp stone. Somehow the fact that he knew her name but  didn't use it stung her greatly. “Why? You know more about me than anyone else. You may as well know it all.” 

When his footsteps came closer, she opened her eyes. “I won’t lie to you just so I can feel more comfortable.” Her voice became a barely audible whisper, but it was too late to stop. “It’s the worst possible time to say it, I know. And I value your friendship. As I’ve said before...I won’t pursue unwilling prey.” 

When he said nothing, she let a sad smile spill over her lips. 

“And despite what it might look like, I still have some sense and pride left in me.” She scrambled to her feet and extinguished the fire rune. “I’d like to hold onto that. So if you’d excuse me.”

She circled around him and headed back to the library. Too late she realized she’d left the pendant behind, but her nerves wore thin as silk and threatened to fall apart at any moment. 

She rested her back against the bookshelves once back in the subterranean library and slowly calmed her racing thoughts.  Then she hurried upstairs and through the main hall. 

“Clementine.”

She stopped dead in her tracks at Solas’s voice. There had to be another entrance to the grove somewhere in here; he stood at the doorway of the rotunda, even though she’d left the grove first. Just looking at him made her heart ache anew.

“You forgot,” he said, crossing the great hall toward her. He beckoned her to open her palm and handed over the pendant without touching her. 

She hid her disappointment. “Thank you.” Clementine forced her feet to move out of the keep and into her garden room. 

Finally alone, she slumped on her bed and buried her face deep in the covers - only to fill her lungs with Solas’s scent. “Curse them all,” she muttered as she bolted upright and pulled the hemp pouch out of her pocket. The string was neatly tied into a bow and she pulled it open, shaking the fabric to let out all the tiny reminders of her past.

She stared at the contents spilled on the blanket. A pointy, blackened tooth laid among her little things, and she touched it with trembling fingers. It hummed with unknown energy. Clementine picked the tooth up, hypnotized by the sight.

A quiet, hesitant knock on her door nearly made her leap out of her skin.

“Come in,” she mumbled, and closed her fingers tightly around the canine resting in her hand.

She didn’t need to look up when a familiar silhouette filled the doorway.

“I know a great deal about pain and regret.” Solas stood warily at the entrance, not moving further. His voice was barely audible when he spoke again. “You must create new memories.  And...I wish to help you, if you would have me, Clementine.”

She looked up at him bit her cheek. A tooth was missing from Solas’s jawbone pendant. 

“I’d pretend to lose my memory again just to have you around,” she whispered.


	20. Chapter 20

Bookkeeper was still half asleep when a butterfly-light touch over her hip pulled her out of the Fade. She stirred and mumbled, unwilling to let go of the pleasant dreams. The tentative exploration of another body, the pale skin pressed against her, the murmur of a content voice near her ear. A distant laugh pushed her a little closer to reality; when a soft, warm touch enveloped her earlobe, her eyes flew open.

Her room was dark, save the dim embers from the fireplace. The room was empty, and the Veil undisturbed - neither a mortal nor a curious spirit breached the privacy of her chamber. 

A very vivid dream, after all.

Absentmindedly, she brushed over her ear and frowned. As her grief had dulled over the weeks, she found herself increasingly drawn to Solas - who kept a polite, friendly distance, most of the time. An occasional stolen hug didn’t impose, and they slid into a comfortable closeness.

Had her imagination conjured up a touch, long craved and never given? An image of scantily clad Solas from her interrupted dream flashed through her mind and she groaned. Not better. She had never seen him undressed. Not even a bare chest - but her imagination gladly supplied images of its own. 

She rubbed her face, exasperated. No naked apostates, please, she scolded herself. Maybe a walk in the crisp night air would help her to cool down. 

Silence ruled over the fortress this late at night, and she quietly strolled through the overgrown bushes of the garden, shivering in her nightshirt. The medicinal herb garden was hardly a sculpted Orlesian art piece, but Clementine loved the wild, unkempt feeling. The leaves rustled in the nightly breeze but shielded her from the worst of the chill, and she let out a long breath. 

Solas claimed his distance was necessary, that she needed to grieve the losses of her past, unpressured, and  find a new balance. Whenever she took a step too close, he’d take one back. Whenever she stirred in his embrace, he’d let her go. 

She felt like she would scream if he took one more step back to give her space. She wanted anything but space.

 

She worked quietly in the library most of the next day, going through a long list of incoming books - many on the topic of darkspawn and Grey Wardens, and some about the Fade and spirits from various Chantry sources. The task at hand proved more daunting than she initially thought. The Skyhold library was a mess; a hodgepodge of books lay haphazardly on the shelves, without rhyme or reason. She had spent several days re-arranging the main library already, and more than half of the shelves remained.

Dorian’s habit of literally throwing books wherever it pleased him only served to irritate her. She nearly broke a quill in half when another tome flew by, missing her by inches.

“Could you at least aim somewhere other than where I sit?” she snapped.

Dorian gave her a surprised look. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were there. You’re always so exceptionally quiet.”

She scribbled a small note near a title on the long list and rubbed her eyes. “Just lost in thought.”

“What kind, I wonder?” 

She picked up the assaulting book and threw it back at him. It fell to his feet with a light thud. “The naughtiest. I’d appreciate it if you stop throwing books. They are hard to fix once the spine breaks.”

He brushed imaginary dust off the tome and carefully pushed it back among its peers, only to pull out another, read the title, and swing it over his head.

Clementine watched the tome sail over the railing and land somewhere near Solas’ workspace.

“Dorian!” she exclaimed and let out a short, desperate laugh. “I need another mage to put up a barrier just so I can watch the books bounce right back at you.”

She stood up and sighed. Dorian wouldn’t have to go downstairs to retrieve the manuscript, and he knew it.

Dorian gave her a mocking, wounded look. “Surely I’m too pretty for books to hit me in the face?”

Clementine lifted an eyebrow. “I will ask Madame de Fer. I am sure she knows a spell to keep a pesky mage at bay.”

Dorian let out a short laugh. “Oh, I quiver with fear. Our dear Madame de Fer  might want to restrain you in the process. All in all, you’re the furthest from a good little Circle mage.”

“Fine, fine. Could you, pretty please, refrain from throwing more books while I pick up the last one?”

“I suppose,” Dorian mused and tapped a finger against his lips. Clementine shook her head, caught between laughter and exasperation. She took the short stairs down and entered the rotunda still smiling. Her smile quickly disappeared when she noticed where the guilty tome had landed. Solas was meticulously wiping away ink stains from a scroll on his desk.

The book had evidently skidded across his desk, landing on the other side.  She crossed the rotunda to pick it up. 

“Do you want me to help?” The ink splatter continued to slowly spread, and some of the dots stuck to the wool of his tunic. 

He straightened and looked down at his clothes. “I will take that as a sign to rest.” 

A tiny splatter of ink stuck to his chin and she stretched her hand to wipe it off without thinking. When he turned away from her touch, Clementine froze and frowned. Was even a friendly touch unwelcome? She pulled her hand back, and when Solas mumbled an apology without looking at her, she fled the rotunda with heat crawling over her cheeks.

 

Solas canceled their evening lesson without further explanation and holed himself up in his bedchamber, leaving her to spend her evening alone. 

She went back to her room to retrieve a book, a spare blanket from her closet, and some leftover bread with cheese. Clutching the three items, she weaved her way into the subterranean archive. A short detour into another room procured a bottle of a cheap Antivan wine, and finally outfitted to her liking, she entered the archive, locked the door behind her, and very carefully descended to the hidden grove.

The ancient tree flickered in her presence and illuminated the cavern in a soft purple light, and she stretched the blanket beneath the canopy. She let out a contented sigh, with her back against the rough bark, snacks, and a book. She set a tiny fire rune underneath the wine bottle and let the alcohol evaporate, leaving behind sour grape juice.

Flipping through the pages she had read, Clementine stopped at the last chapter of the book on Dalish lore. Fen’Harel, The Betrayer, read the header. Why anyone would worship a Betrayer was really beyond her. Something about the name gnawed at her, but the memory was so faint and distant that she didn’t even try to grasp it. 

She was on the third page of the chapter, with a large picture of an elven mosaic on the opposite page, when a shadow fell over the letters.

She yelped and jumped. Her hand flew to her mouth before she swore; Solas stood over her, looking curiously at the book in her lap.

“Did you just Fade step to me?” She hadn’t seen or heard him enter the grove. 

He made a noncommittal noise, eyes on the picture in her book.  An image of a towering wolf.

“I thought you were long asleep,” said Clementine. “You seemed...irritated when I left.” He finally looked at her, and she smiled. “Whatever bothered you, I hope you’re feeling better.”

His gaze lingered on her lips, and she quickly killed an imaginary stomach butterfly.

“I was asleep,” Solas replied. “If you continue to trespass, I will have to teach you how to avoid the ward. It is getting tiresome to maintain with such a curious intruder.”

“Well, I am here now...might as well?”

He gave her a long and unfathomable look before he motioned toward the entrance. Unlike him, she couldn’t see the rune, but she could feel the light thrum in her chest when he pinpointed its location and led her to it. 

“It is easy enough to bypass. All you need is a small barrier between the ward and your feet,” he explained while casting a thin blue sheen over the floor.

Clementine tilted her head. “If it’s so easy to fool, why have it?”

“You triggered it every time, did you not? It is hard to detect, and it cannot be seen. That is all I need. A warning that causes no harm.  I am not a killer.” 

Something about the way he said it sounded strange,  and Clementine stopped her own barrier mid-cast. “Who thinks of you as a killer?”

He tried for a smile.  “Nobody of consequence, I assure you.” When he strolled back to the tree, she followed without thinking - he winced when her feet triggered the ward. A pang of guilt shot through her - was that what made him come down, every single time? That had to be uncomfortable.

“Sorry,” she said, joining him next to the tree.  Solas said nothing, taking in her little picnic site, and she swallowed. Suddenly, watching him, she did feel like a trespasser. Like he belonged to this place, and no one else ever would.  “Or maybe I should just...go. I can read in my bed.”

“Yes,” he murmured, “that would be for the best.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked.

He nodded and she took a step to land a soft kiss on his cheek, but he dodged her. Heat crept into her face, turning her skin cherry red. He did not utter a word or touch her.  He even looked...sad?  Regretful? But that single flinch made her feel as if he slapped her. Not waiting for more prodding, Clementine nearly sprinted out of the grove.

She read through the rest of the book that night, unwilling to sleep. Her fingers kept on flicking over the edge of the book, and her mind wandered, only to latch onto the single tooth hanging around her neck. By the time her eyes grew as heavy as her mind, she slid under the covers without changing. All she needed was a little rest. 

The dreams that enveloped her were a swirl of confused imagery, swinging back and forth between utter loneliness and bare skin on bare skin. She woke up once, with her hand resting firmly between her legs, and groaned.

It had to stop. They’d establish they were friends, and she could move on. Or Maker, she’d beat him at his own game.

Unable to fall back asleep, she stared at the rough stone ceiling spanning over her head. The dawn was about an hour away. The heat that pooled between her legs was unrelenting. With a weary sigh, Clementine pulled the blanket back over her head.


	21. Chapter 21

“Solas.” Clementine’s voice resounded in the rotunda as he flicked his eyes over her. The scroll he worked on curled up.

He sighed and ran his fingers across the parchment. “Yes?” 

He was surprised by her intrusion, and she knew it. But a wrinkle between his brows would hardly deter her. It was past dinner time, and everyone was free. Except for him, it seemed.

“You didn’t come to the garden again...no lesson today, then?” 

He measured her with a careful look. He already informed her once this afternoon, but she pretended to forget. Dipping his quill in ink, he resumed careful strokes on the straightened scroll.

“I believe we do not need to continue on a daily basis anymore. You have grown capable enough. You deserve a break.”

Clementine folded her arms. “And how about you?” 

“Sadly, I have work to do.”

Her eyes lingered on the letters he so carefully shaped. 

“You’re rewriting a recipe for an apple-stuffed nug.”

Solas bit down a chuckle. “Do not mention it to Leliana.”

Cracking her fingers, Clementine walked over and rested her fingers on his shoulders. “You’re stiff. Let me help you. Your writing will flow better that way.”

“I can simply use a sp--” 

“No.” Her breath brushed over his ear. He let out a jagged breath and shaped another letter on the page.

She kneaded on his shoulders and neck for a moment, and felt the rigid muscles relax. As a satisfied cat, he leaned into her touch. When he realized what he had done, he straightened and guided his quill through another letter. She brushed her fingers over his jaw and ears, smiling as his stroke became unsteady.

“Do not play with fire, Clementine.”

Her smile widened. It was exactly the reason she stalked into the rotunda past nightfall. “What if I feel cold? Poking the fire is precisely what I need to get warm again.”

“I would not have you burnt. One has to proceed with caution around such a volatile element.” Another letter formed on the yellowed page.

“I should be thankful that you taught me how to...tame it, then.”

Slowly, Solas wiped the sharp end of his quill, placed it near the scroll, and turned to her. A suppressed smile twitched in the corners of his lips.

“It takes a single spark to start a wildfire. I would advise against being caught in its wake.” 

“You can’t scorch what is already burning.”

Solas shook his head and chuckled. “You can be very trying.”

Clementine grinned. “I apologize. Let me make that up to you.” She entwined her fingers with his, and pulled him out of his chair. He hesitated, as if afraid for a moment.

“Follow.” She tugged on his hand. 

He threw a mocking bow. “Yes, mistress.” 

She pulled him through the hall, into the underbelly, and stopped her pace only when they reached the hidden grove. A thick woolen blanket stretched near the tree. She smuggled in a fragranced oil, and it rested near the trunk together with a book; the idea came to her while she read, another evening of solitude ahead of her.

“Lie down,” she motioned on the blanket.

Solas lifted a brow. She motioned again, and repeated: “Lie down.”

Solas folded his frame on the blanket, half sitting.

“On your stomach, silly.” 

A flicker of inner fire sparkled in his eyes. Slowly, he started to turn around. 

She smirked. “And relax.”

“I swear--” He pushed himself back on his elbows, but Clementine already knelt over him, straddling his thighs with hers. With all her being, she pushed between his shoulderblades, and he let her flatten him to the ground. 

“It’s a simple and rather innocent massage for a friend, Solas. You’ve been stiff as a board for the past few weeks. Relax.”

“There is not a single innocent hair on you, Clementine.” Amusement flickered through his strained voice.

“True enough. Don’t tempt me, then.”

“I am hardly the one playing games here.”

“Lay still. Prudent as you are, I will simply massage through your sweater, then. To prove my thoroughly innocent intentions.”

Solas scoffed so loud she slapped him on his shoulder. “Still, I said.”

She could feel the tremble of his chest when he let out an exasperated laugh; but slowly, his body relaxed and he pushed his forehead into his forearms.

“One more command, Clementine,” he warned quietly.

She bit her lip. The temptation to try and see what his threat was worth ran strong in her veins, but she held her lips tight. With nearly mechanical precision, she started to press and pull her fingers across the soft fabric of his tunic.

The movement strained her back and she had to push herself away from his thighs after a while. Solas mumbled a muffled protest when she seated herself on top of his buttocks; only increased pressure in her fingers relaxed him. They were both very much dressed, anyway. 

She chuckled when he shifted for the umpteenth time, visibly uncomfortable.

“Am I too heavy for your delicate elven frame?” she asked, massaging along his spine. If he turned, he’d spot a pair of very innocent eyes. Solas uttered a noncommittal noise and moved his hips aside. She slid her palms over his broad shoulders and hissed when the fabric burnt her. 

“This would be much easier if you didn’t wear twenty layers.” 

Solas rearranged his hips again. She pushed herself off and slid her hands along his spine, pressing thumbs down just over the seam of his pants.

“If it’s not me, it’s the ground. Too hard for your liking?” she asked. 

She couldn’t make out his response, littered mostly with elvhen. She did, however, understand the part containing a wicked woman.

“I am merely concerned for your well-being,” she replied and positioned herself over his buttocks again, wiggling enough to make herself comfortable - and hear more of the heated elvhen.

She worked muscle by muscle again, enjoying the feel of a firm form underneath the soft layers of his clothes, then slid her hands underneath his tunic and shirt. Biting down her own gasp from the direct touch of her skin on his, off limits, she felt Solas stiffen. Without a word, she kept one hand on the small of his back, and unscrewed the lid on the fragranced oil.

Solas lay silent and still, then let out a quiet protest, “I am not sure this is the best idea.”

She tugged on the edge of his tunic, then on the belt keeping it in place. The knot holding the belt was under his stomach - pressed against the ground. “It’s a terrible idea, I agree.”

“Then you should try to find a better one,” he suggested as her fingers followed the belt from both sides. He pressed himself harder against the ground, preventing her fingers from their exploration.

“I rather like this one, though,” she replied, lifted herself to give him a bit of space, and pressed her index fingers in the soft spot underneath his hip bones. Solas let out a surprised “Owh,” and raised his hips - and her hands quickly slid along the belt.

He trembled in place, up on his elbows, stomach in the air. She could feel him fight the urge to drop on her hands and immobilize her right then and there. He didn’t - and she quickly untied the knot and removed the belt wrapped around his waist. 

“I’ll give you two options, Solas. You strip the tunic yourself, or I’ll do it for you.”

“I suggest a third option. I keep the attire, and you run and lock yourself in your room.” His voice carried a dark promise.

“Now why would I do that?” Clementine tugged on the sweater again, then let out a mock sigh. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.” Her hands touched his bare back again, and she pushed the sweater as high as she could. Ignoring the lightness settling in her stomach and below, the feeling of lean muscles underneath her palms, she tried to pull the shirt over his head. Solas didn’t cooperate and it stuck at his shoulderblades. She grinned.

“Strip,” she snapped, “Or I’ll--oof!”

She landed on her back. Solas knelt over her, her wrists pinned in one of his hands. The slow smile that spilled over his lips sent a delicious shiver down her spine.

“My turn to please the lady.” His free hand ran down her curves. He stopped by the edge of her own tunic and pulled on the hem. “But it will be easier without the twenty layers on.”

She let out a weak sound. Maker, did she tease too much?

Unlike her moves, his were short and precise. Effortlessly, Solas slid her clothes over her head. The contact of his fingers on her bare torso carried soft and gentle despite his rough start, and she squirmed, melting under his touch.

“Turn,” he said and Clementine shook her head. He picked the scented oil and smelled the contents. With appraising look, Solas pooled few drops of the strong lavender in his palm.

“Would you deny me the pleasure of returning you the favor? Surely you would appreciate a massage?” He tilted his head, his innocence no less fake than hers only moments ago.

Giving him a suspecting look, Clementine slowly turned. Solas straddled her hips. She couldn't see what he did behind her back. His palms slid over her torso as he lathered her skin in the lavender oil, pressing and pushing in the right spots to make her sigh with relief. She shut her eyes, trying to hold in the less innocent of gasps when his long fingers trailed by the sides of her breasts.

His weight shifted and she tried to peek.

“Lay still.”

“You are no game, are you?” she groaned quietly. Did he plan to use everything she did against her?

“On the contrary,” he replied and worked his hands along her back and waist, fingers lingering around softer parts of her body. She stifled a sinful moan. Maker, she was soaking her underwear. She bit down another groan when his fingers ran by her breasts and swayed her hips a little. His breath hitched.

Then, he let out a chuckle. “Uncomfortable, Clementine? Allow me to assist you.” 

His hand moved over her spine. Only when the warmth of his touch seeped in the cheek of her bottom she realized that he rid her of everything but a breastband and smallclothes.

Her voice was strained.  “How…?”

“Magic,” he replied with suppressed laughter. He moved slowly over the curve of her butt and rested against the same soft spot underneath the hip bone she used on him. 

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered through a quiet laughter and tried to twist underneath his weight. 

But he pressed - and her hips raised. A flutter of need spread through her. She moaned shakily as her  rear brushed over the erection restrained in his breeches. His fingers feathered over her thighs, the curve of her back, her shoulders. The heat of his chest against her own skin scattered the last of her restraint; Solas bent over her, lips brushing over her temple, hips pressed firmly against her elevated ass.

“Last chance,” he breathed in her ear and she shut her eyes. She pressed harder against the bulge in his pants. “Very well,” he replied. She felt a smile form on his lips, then a soft nib on her ear.

She lingered a moment, enjoying the touch of his skin on hers. The heat of his breath near her ear. The racing heartbeat pressed against her back. A flutter of touch and her breastband disappeared; her smallclothes followed.

“Unfair,” she mumbled as the fabric of his breeches rubbed against her. 

“Feel free to rectify the injustice,” Solas hummed in her ear and gently bit her nape. 

Short on breath, Clementine turned under his lean frame to face him. She let her fingers wander over the chiseled features of his face. He was stunning; and straining for control. His pupils wide and dark, skin dampened by sweat. She trailed his cheekbones and nose, then pressed her finger against his full lips.

He leaned close, hovered just a breath away from her. She could smell the elfroot and pepper mixed with his musk.

“Naughty,” she whispered with a hint of laughter, “Turning my game against me.”

He bit her finger, then flashed a feral smile when he noted how wet for him she was. “You cannot hunt the hunter, Clementine.” 

His lips touched hers, claiming with ferocity she didn’t expect. His tongue ghosted over hers, and when she let out a muffled moan, the kiss deepened, leaving her completely breathless. She let her hands trail his tense body, feather over his waist, tug on his pants.

Solas clasped her wrists above her head again. “Not yet.” 

She let out a quiet protest and tried to pry her hands free. He smiled, but didn’t let go. His lips moved along her neck and over the scar on her collarbone, only to stop at her breasts. When his hot lips enveloped her nipple, sucking and nipping, tongue flicking over and over, she whimpered. The tension inside her started to grow with pressing speed, and she squirmed under the heat of his touch.

“Lay still,” he repeated her words and moved to her second breast, hand trailing down her body. Another languid dance of a tongue and Clementine arched. His hand pressed against her butt, her open invitation making his imprisoned erection throb against her. 

His mouth trailed over her stomach. She tensed in expectation and Solas smiled against her skin. “Relax,” he breathed in her navel and stroked over her thighs, avoiding her folds, swollen in desire.

“Cruel,” she whispered as his breath teased her.

“Eager,” he murmured. Solas trailed her inner thighs and stretched back over her. Not caring about teasing him anymore, Clementine only rocked her hips in response. He let her wrists free while his other hand finally slipped in between her folds, hot and wet in wanting. She clutched his shoulders. Her vision blurred. Only the building tension existed, only the long digit sliding back and forth, coated in her juice, pushing in and out. His thumb pressed against her clit and she tensed, release only a touch away.

Solas withdrew his hand and she cried out in frustration. He trailed a pattern near her clit, earning a surprised gasp as the soft touch jolted through her being, pushing her closer to her peak. Her breaths quickened as she fumbled to force his breeches off; and let out a pleased sigh when her fingers finally curled around the length of him. He was hard and ready, pre-cum already glistening on the tip, and she feathered her fingers over the head, then firmly grasped and stroked down. His breath hitched and he pushed against her palm, unable to resist. 

“Not...yet,” Solas exhaled and cupped her hand on his cock, holding her still. Then he claimed her in another kiss. He teased her with his mouth and hands, working her close to the edge only to drop her back to desperate wanting.

“Solas, please,” she rasped when she plummeted away from her peak once more and he let out a short, quiet chuckle.

“I rather like you begging,” he replied and positioned himself over her. She could feel the tip of his cock pressing at her folds, but he remained still. She swayed her hips against him and he exhaled sharply - trembling, barely in control, waiting to cool down.

Not letting her chance by, Clementine grabbed his buttocks and shoved against him. He slipped inside the heat of her, and cried out an incoherent curse as she enveloped him fully. He filled her, and she rocked her hips, earning another loud groan from him.

“I rather like you inside,” she whispered and made a strangled noise as he moved inside her. Without warning, Solas slid out and she arched in protest. “Don’t--” A loud cry bounced off the cavern walls when he thrusted with all his force. He left and buried himself in her few more times, leaving her a trembling, begging pile at his disposal.

When he withdrew once again, she threw her legs over his shoulders and pulled him fully inside. 

“Fenedhis, woman,” he swore as he sunk in up to his hilt, unable to keep himself in control anymore. The small victory smile quickly disappeared from her lips when he pressed his tongue against hers, kiss deep and in the rhythm of his slamming hips, the sound of flesh on flesh filling the cavern together with her strangled moans and his low growls. His fingers trailed a thrumming rune around her clit and she started to tremble in an impending release; when he rounded her clit with his fingers, her world shattered into a thousand little pieces of pleasure. She rippled around him, panting and breathless, trembling in his embrace, and he rode on the wave of her climax harder. A few frantic snaps of his hips and Solas tensed, pulsing inside her, his release hot and fiery.

A sheen of sweat coated their bodies as they slumped, exhausted. She felt him slip out, the trickle of his seed on her thigh. Solas pulled her closer and cradled her, and she let out a satisfied sigh.

He reinforced the fire rune keeping them warm, then pulled her on top of him and brushed his fingers over her features. Heartbeat still wild, she smiled into his chest.

“Truly wicked, my heart,” he hummed in her hair.

Clementine placed a gentle kiss on his cooling skin. “No less than you are, emma lath.”


End file.
